The sound of honorary gunfire echoes throughout the dark, eerie cemetery, littered with unkept headstones covered in all different shades of grey accented by the dark greens of the overgrowth and worn on the edges from the countless years they had been victim to the elements, as the bright red, white, and blue flag-draped casket lies mere feet from our faces. Covered in flowers and a triangle flag, family members mourned their loss and the soldiers stood at attention in remembrance of the World War II veteran we had all just lost. Enclosed within the casket’s glossy, mahogany shell, padded with a velvet cushion, is the man we had seen only two short weeks prior. We said goodbye that day as if it would be our last, he had just passed 96 years of age so we all knew it was a matter of time, yet somehow it still felt unreal, perhaps a sick, distasteful joke by a family member. At least that’s what I wish it was, just a sick joke. Who could’ve guessed how gloomy a sunny day can turn with the work of a simple phone call, or how a simple suit a tie could feel crushingly heavy as it clung onto your skin as you sit in the church, listening to the kind words people spoke of the man we had longed so much to see one last time, or how heavy a simple wood box was while carrying it down an aisle lined with flowers, especially when you have 5 other men helping you out. The memory still plays in my mind vividly every day, and I still remember the exact emotions I had felt that dark day, but now it is all just a memory.

There are certain things that can remind me of times long gone, even something as simple as a little hint of a taste, or a faint smell of something I had smelled before, for instance when my mom makes the pies in my great-grandma’s old recipe book she used to use before she passed. The reminder of these memories will bring me back to my great-grandparent’s house, just as we had done every Thanksgiving when my great-grandma would make some of the best desserts, cookies, pies, and other random assortments of sweet treats. My favorite was her apple pies, and if I think hard enough I can still taste the sweet, fresh apples slightly crunch in my mouth, yet still, softly squish from the heat from the oven in which they were just removed from. The warm, gooey, brown sugar and cinnamon filling of the pie flooding my mouth with flavor like a dam that had just broken, unleashing a tsunami of waves upon those on the other side. The flaky, homemade crust would give it the extra sweet, yet slightly salty flavor that it seemed like it was missing. With every bite these flavors clashed, mixing together and building on each other like the legos bricks needed to complete the sets she would get me for my birthday as a young child. Those days are nice to look back on, but now they’re just memories.

My grandpa and I go out to the woods, more so now that I’ve gotten older and will be more of a help than a burden, but those days are always some of my happiest. Nothing but open wilderness, the cool, crisp air gently brushing against me as I walk through the slightly overgrown brush, ferns, and bushes rubbing against my leg with the occasional branch scraping along my calf, not cutting deep enough to draw blood, but just enough for me to notice the slight feeling, not so much pain, more of a mild discomfort. We would bring an ax and weedwhacker back, trimming down the paths, with the loud motor of the weedwhacker engine scaring away birds and other tiny critters as far as we could hear. As we walk back we check the game cameras we have set up to see if there are any deer worth hunting. Walking along the trails we must be careful because deer prints show up very defined in the soft, moist dirt. The sound of the creek gently flowing through the land, wearing down the edges and providing a refreshing drink to all the animals that call this area home. If you just stop and take it all in you feel your stresses, along with every other negative emotion, fleeting from you, flowing away just as a tadpole or tiny fish does in the mesmerizing creek. I’ll always remember the calmness and peace those woods have brought me.

Other times I am at my happiest is when I’m with my uncle. He heavily took after his mother, who herself may as well be a poster-child of the ‘60’s hippie-era, always dawning a tie-dye shirt and somehow always playing psychedelic music in the background, such as The Beatles or Pink Floyd, with the occasional Jimi Hendrix thrown in. My uncle is a big guy, towering over me in height and not being the skinniest of people, and he always wears a graphic tee shirt of some bands, more obscure and fairly unknown than not, and covers his now-bald head with some kind of hat, but it seems as if the hair had not left, just moved down from atop his head down onto his face, forming a mildly long, dark, charcoal-black beard. He has always stood out, but in a good way, like a sweet, plump, juicy blueberry in a carton of tiny, sour, dry blueberries, or a sharp crayon when the rest of your box is dull. He always loved playing music, lining his walls in guitars and a seemingly endless collection of vinyl records that appear to find their way into every corner and crevasse of his house. He’s solely to blame for my love of music, being the one to introduce me to all the best bands such as Led Zeppelin, The Ramones, Rush, The Who, and many more. He also got me my first guitar when I was in 7th grade as a Christmas present as well. It was an old, slightly worn, glossy black Stratocaster he picked up at a pawnshop along with a small amplifier to plug it into. It was kind of beat up but it did its job until I got into it enough to buy myself a better guitar, but I still have that beat-up strat on a stand in my room. If you show up to his house and he’s home, the chances of him having a guitar in his hand or record spinning are higher than him not, however, if he isn’t home, he’s most likely trying a new local restaurant that had recently opened, at the non-profit bike shop he runs that helps the community fix their bikes and helps donate bikes to the homeless and less fortunate in the area, or Flat, Black, and Circular, a local vinyl shop he might as well live at by now. He has this way of connecting with new people and remembering people he’s already met, even if they only had one short conversation before. Even then, he lives on his own, yet he’s happy and content with his life like he has everything he needs already and isn’t really missing out on anything in life. He’s very carefree and goes with the flow, much more so than I am, and I’m kind of envious of him for it. He truly is someone I look up to, and while I don’t get to see him often as he lives about two hours away, the time I do spend with him always creates some of my most fond memories.

We all carry things, both symbolically and literally, but I most fondly carry memories of those I’ve interacted with throughout my life. They don’t necessarily have to be dead, but those who are I cherish even more because I know the memories of them I have now are the only ones of them I’ll ever have. While all the stories I have told may seem like an unordered, discombobulated mess, they all have one thing in common; they are some of my fondest memories. These memories are stuck in my mind like a pencil mark that continues to remain no matter how many times you take an eraser to it. I hold them dear to my heart for I know that while many may say family is forever, sooner or later everyone leaves, whether that be by the will of the universe or whatever all-powerful deity you may believe in. Holding onto memories can be an amazing thing, reminding you of times you may never experience again, but you must remember that they are just that, memories. If you live in the past you won’t have the ability to create new memories, but if you carry the memories with you as I have, and you learn to live with them rather than in them, your memories will truly become somewhat of a best friend per se, always there to help you when you need them most, reminding you of times long gone physically, but never gone mentally.