Handles

Some memories come with a handle.

They are not the ones stacked neatly on the top shelf. They are the ones you can grab when everything else feels slippery and far away.

It took me a while to realize it. Some memories just hang on harder. They have weight to them. Texture. A pulse you can still feel if you reach for it.

I think it is because of the emotions tied to them. A deep laugh. A real heartbreak. A fear so strong it rattled my teeth. A joy so big it left me stunned.

Those feelings build a kind of anchor. They sink the memory deeper into me, make it easier to find even when the rest of the world starts to go fuzzy.

Other memories, the ones without a handle, slip away too easily. I reach for them and come back with nothing but air. A face half-remembered. A conversation that dissolves before I can catch it. They are still out there somewhere, but they are harder to grasp now.

But the ones with a handle, those I can still pull close.

I can still feel my daughter’s tiny hand squeezing mine the first day she ever went to school. I can still hear the way my mom’s voice would lift when she said my name after a long time apart.

I can still feel the rain pounding down the day our daughter was born. I remember standing in the hospital parking lot, soaked through, laughing and crying all at once, feeling the weight of a new life beginning.

And I can still see the way the sun poured over the Grand Canyon when I stood there with my wife and daughter. I can feel the cool wind on my face, hear the sound of their laughter bouncing off the canyon walls. That day is carved deep into me. Solid. Bright. Real.

The memory itself might be faded, like an old photograph left in the sun too long. But the feeling, the feeling is sharp. Solid. It gives me something to hold onto.

Maybe that is part of the work now. Finding the handles. Wrapping both hands around them and holding tight.

Because not everything will stay. But some things will. The things with a handle.

And while I still have the handles, I want to share those stories. Before they slip away.