This is how my mother wanted to be remembered. My memory of her is… a little bit different. I’m sure everyone remembers their own version of her. Versions I wouldn’t even recognize. It’s all that’s really left of someone when they’re gone. But that’s the tricky thing. Nobody’s memory is perfect or complete. We jumble things up. We lose track of time. We are in one place and another. And it all feels like one long, inescapable moment. It’s just like my mother used to say:
The carousel never stops turning.