Next month I will turn 68. I am beyond asking myself how this happened. But I am not beyond thinking how time has flown by. Lately tiny memories will arise out of the blue, and I will suddenly find myself acutely aware of something that happened years ago. There are of course the momentous moments of one’s life: births, deaths, job losses, a cancer diagnosis, weddings, graduations, etc. But these memories are for the most part new, and somewhat trivial. Or so I thought.

I sit with them and allow myself time to remember, conjuring up my senses, and indulging myself in this little folly. For truly, what encompasses a life if it is not a string of what we might deem unsung moments. Moments that seem so insignificant that we have buried them for years.

As they float to the surface I find myself engulfed in a rare form of sweetness that has helped me see myself more clearly, and understand myself a little better.

But I can’t help but wonder why now?

“We do not remember days, we remember moments. The richness of life lies in memories we have forgotten.”

― Cesare Pavese