It gets harder and harder to remember.

Time has a way of blurring lines, softening edges and dulling out words.

But sometimes, memories can be felt so distinctly that you think hardly any time has passed at all. And as Marcel Proust so eloquently described in the infamous madeline moment in In Search of Lost Time, certain tastes and scents can bring back memories that you think you’ve long forgotten.

I think it’s a beautiful sentiment. That hidden within the deep recesses of our each individual edifices of memory, there are memories that can be jarred by an errant scent or a spot of flavor.

And as he describes, it doesn’t have to be an immediate recollection. I think in Swan’s Way-the volume in which the madeline moment comes out in- the protagonist takes a few moments to think and ponder about the meaning of the taste of madelines soaked in a little bit of lime blossom tea. Why it stirred him as it did, why he had such an overflowing of emotion.

It’s an emotional response really, that’s tied to these scents and tastes. And once we recognize the emotion, we can start to form the images. The details get sharper, the sounds get louder and before you know it, you’re engulfed in that specific memory.

A memory that has never been forgotten, only hidden. Little spots of time, as Wordsworth penned.

They keep us warm when we’re old.

I guess that’s why it’s so important to form these memories when we’re younger, those stalwart bastions of cheer and joy, to protect us when we’re no longer physically able to form these on our own.

I guess that’s why we’re always reminded to not work so hard, because at the end of the day, the material successes will only keep us happy for so long.

Sometimes I think of my elderly patients from when I’d work home care. Immensely wealthy but also lonely. Sitting alone in these giant, wonderfully furnished homes.

They were by and large depressed, lonely and craving human interaction. They’d tell stories of their youth but again, after chasing after material success and power, their stories would be vapid and shallow. Glamorous, but with no substance.

The normal families, who lived relatively normal lives, had the bustling family all about them. Colorful, varied stories full of love and emotion. Occasionally I’d hear of their regrets and of grievances that they’d like to address before they’d passed. But usually, there were stories of families and friends, each carefully framed picture in their homes hinting at a memory.

I wonder what kind of memories I will take with me when I’m older.

I certainly hope they’re of the happy variety.