On Memorial Day: Try to Forget
In the attempts of “forgetting”, I find a sense of peace and fulfillment that transcends sorrow.
The more the flowers come out, the more reluctant I am to step into the garden.
It’s the first blooming season after my wife’s passing. As though these flowers have had a secret meeting and agreed upon something. They all burst into an explicable frenzy. The two bougainvillea bushes along the fence didn’t bear flowers at all in the past two years. My wife bought them and picked the place to plant them. She used to sit next to them, staring and muttering, “Don’t die, please.” Now they are both covered with blossoms so dense that the branches are entirely invisible.
But I feel a choking in my chest when I come close. I can’t watch them without picturing the weak form sitting there, staring and muttering.
And the lavenders, the succulents, the kalanchoes in pots along the sunroom windows. A mini music box with a panda on its top sits on the pot table. She used to sit there, trimming, pot-planting, listening to the music box. She couldn’t stand up without help. When the music stopped, she would ask me to turn it up. Then the melody of “Hungarian Dance” would drift again in the sunroom, slower, slower, before dying out. Having lost the turning hands and the solo listener over the past ten months, the box must be bored to death. So much so that sometimes I walk past it and it gives out one or two sounds. Incredibly slow. I still remember the tune.
There were five bigger bougainvillea bushes on the slope. She bought them two months before her eternal leave. She was already in wheel chair. I had to take care of the garden for her, following her instructions. She picked the planting place for the new bougainvillea so she could look down at them through her bedroom window on the second floor. She never got to see the flowers. Now they bear full bloom, the color glaring like a van Gogh painting.
The reminder of her absence. The more vibrant the blooms, the heavier my sorrow.
I try not to come to the garden. But I want to take care of it more than ever. For I know she must sit somewhere in the garden, staring and muttering. I stopped using WeChat, the top messenger App in the Chinese community, for her messages were pinned at the top. I can’t bring myself to delete them. The family album is now hidden in the deepest drawer for I have to stifle the urge to relive those days.
I have tried to forget her. Turns out, many people have tried this measure too. But to no avail. “You’ll never forget someone if you are trying to forget them.”
It’s Memorial Day tomorrow. The news says this year has reached the record number of people hitting the road to celebrate the Memorial Weekend. We celebrate Memorial Day to remember those who have given their lives for our freedom. Suddenly some questions dawned on me. Do they remember the fallen soldiers for the rest of the year? Or do they forget? Do they tend to forget so they can remember them on some special dates?
As I grapple with the attempts of “forgetting”, my struggle takes on some new meanings. Memorial Day is a day of remembering. But what if we forgot the specific day while keeping a heart of gratitude all the time? This way, we honor their memory not through solemn rituals but through the attempts of “forgetting”.
This thought resonates deeply with me. We often attempt to suppress memories of lost loved ones, thinking that doing so might ease the pain. And they want to see us happy. However, this very act of forgetting highlights their importance in our lives. We can transform this heavy burden into a constant gratitude. Then it becomes a way of life.
On this Memorial Day, I want to “forget” in the traditional sense. I don’t want to limit my gratitude to a single day or a solemn ceremony. Instead, I want to infuse the days with appreciation for all those who make the world a better place, whether they are fallen soldiers, everyday heroes, or loved ones we have lost. I want to celebrate life as a tribute to those who have shaped our world, bitter or sweat. In the attempts of “forgetting”, I find a sense of peace and fulfillment that transcends sorrow.
