"Old friends. Memory brushes the same years.” (Paul Simon)
That line from Simon and Garfunkel’s song “Old Friends” tenderly expresses what makes those old friends so special, and why their loss is so painful: They are the joint custodians of our memories. We old folks like to talk, and we tend to repeat ourselves. We tell the same stories again and again to whomever will listen. We want to live those memories again, and it feels good to talk about them.
But as our old friends die off, our stories become quaint
history to our younger friends. And they may view our repetition of them as
signs of senility. The absence of a common history leaves us with a sense of
isolation. We feel like we no longer belong.
“Preserve your memories,” Simon and Garfunkel sang. “They’re
all that’s left you.” Maybe the fear of losing those memories plays a part in
our repetition of them. We fear that all our experiences may fade into
oblivion. It has been said that in a house fire what people want most to save is
their photo albums. (But, of course, now they are digital images stored in some
“cloud” out there!)
About four years ago, I lost a very good friend who had shared
much of my spiritual journey. Even after he moved to another state, we would
talk for hours on the phone. I miss him. And three years ago, I lost the only
friend who knew everything about me: my wife of fifty-two years. The
comfortable conversations we enjoyed can never be replaced.
Of course, I can have new experiences. But new experiences must be aged like wine to become memories. And if, “by reason of strength,” I still have enough years left to build new memories, what will become of the old, cherished ones?
Memories do fade, or they get distorted and confused with other memories. I learned that when I reread some of the journals I have kept for decades. Some events did not happen exactly as I thought they had. My dad, too, recounted stories that could not have happened as he "remembered" them. Dad used to tell in vivid detail how his dad, a Welsh coal miner, was moved to tears by the movie, "How Green Was My Valley." The movie, however, came out in 1941, and Grandpa died in 1934! I suspect that it was Dad's older brother Howard who was so moved by the film, since Howard was like a father to Dad.
Like other precious things, our memories are fragile. I trust that my old memories, preserved in their original form, are stored up in
heaven with my old friends. And soon we’ll have eternity to share them. Then, like
the householder of the parable, we will bring out of our treasury “things new and old.” (Matthew 13:52 KJV)
