Some memories are clear as if I’m watching them occur right now. Others are like the Polaroids that filled my photo albums, darkening along the edges slowly moved towards the center. And still others are gone. Years, months, weeks,  days completely disappear. Milestones, holidays, meals, and hames all lost to the time that has passed. 

Tart, sweet, juicy, the taste of raspberries linger in my mouth as clear as yesterday. My grandfather points at the bush hanging with plump raspberries. I can’t hear his voice – the depth or the rhythm. I can’t see his face – only those that were captured in film – not in this memory. I can only taste the raspberry and feel the sticky juice mixed with saliva dripping down my chin. 

The photographs remind me that I sat on the tracker young. A pastime that looked thrilling as a child, but as a teenager when tracker became your weekend chore, was less thrilling. They also show me with my grandparents on the swing. These moments are only memories because of their capture not because they remain in my head. 

Except the raspberries. 

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