Last night, I thought a lot. I went back to the earliest memory I have of my existence. I wasn’t trying to accomplish anything. I just visualized my life in a timeline. Most of my memories are formed by stories that have been regurgitated to me by somebody else, but only a handful of my memories actually originated from my own head. Believe me, I could have been born in Syria, and I wouldn’t know, because that’s not what I was ‘told’.
Nothing enlightening happened, but there was one memory, that I rarely revisit that made me reevaluate things. It was the first memory of my Dad, and you know what he was doing? He was grabbing M&Ms from the back of our car to give it to all four of his kids as we were being picked up from the airport. We were stepping into a new country for the first time in our lives and he handed those small chocolate-brown bags of M&Ms to us as we snugly stuffed our tiny little selves in the back of the car. That’s my earliest memory of my Dad and it reminds me of all the things he stands for and he struggled with to get us where we are. I sit here trying to encapsulate feelings of gratitude into words and actions, failing miserably.