Forgotten

In a few years, there will be no one left to remember how my grandfather used to stand at the window on rainy days, hands behind his back, watching the wind whip across his garden.

No one will talk about my grandmother whistling as she made pullcakes, her good eye centered on the dough, her glass eye focused on something outside the kitchen window.

They will be lost memories, consigned to that place where we store our past, unloved and unresurrected. No archivist or archaeologist can retrieve those days, no historian can reconstruct the facts. Only poets and memoirists can keep them alive when the last one is no longer standing.

So tell your stories, write down the myths and legends, and let time know that they lived.