Brigette, I know we’ve chatted on this one so you know I’m a big fan. I read this one at such a perfect time in my life, at an age where I see distinct differences in how my elderly parents remember (or don’t) moments from my childhood that are so vivid to me. And I realize my kids are now experiencing their own versions of memories I’ll hold as a parent, likely in a different way than they remember them. Thanks for writing this, especially in the format that you used. This one was special for me. 🙏
This essay is beautiful Brigitte! I’ve had similar realizations of how different memories can be between siblings. You really brought your childhood home and family to life for me.
Great lines! We share a part of our childhood and memories. I know the brown carpet an the old armchair of your father (my uncle) and I felt transported years back. That‘s why you also remembered a bit for me and I feel with you when the tears come to your eyes. Keep the memories in you, they become more important when loved ones who appear in it are no longer among us. You surely know, what I mean…Even though I‘m so far away, I feel so close to you. Thank you very much 🫶🏼
Oh Annette, liebe Annette! ❤️ You just made my morning and I have again tears in my eyes. You ARE one of the few people in my life who DO remember the brown carpet and armchair ha! Thank you—for being in my life, for being who you are, and for reading my words.
Oh, my Brigitte - what an exquisite piece - the way you wove together your experiences, your memories, and the grace for your sister. It's a hallmark for all of us to consider as we live our lives and derive meaning from it.
This: "The tears felt heavy, lonely without hers."
And this: "Perhaps it held little for her today, or perhaps more than she was ready to touch."
And this: "As though her eyes on them might prove that they mattered."
And this: "We can’t remember for others."
I could go on....
One thing that you've made me realize is how my brother and sisters, since my father passed away, make new memories out of the old memories that are individual to each of us. We find when we are together, seeing my mom, who is still living, that we all bring up personal memories that the rest of us don't remember. And then, we tell stories about those individual memories and, in the process, create new ones that we all share.
I honor the depth of this profound essay Brigitte.
James—how did I miss responding to your beautiful comment!? It’s so thoughtful, especially this:
"One thing that you've made me realize is how my brother and sisters, since my father passed away, make new memories out of the old memories that are individual to each of us."
What an inspiring and hopeful message, I thank you for that 🙏
This is quite remarkable. It’s an essay that covers so much, yet manages to do so without ever feeling cluttered. Stories of now, stories of then, memories of what has been merging with memories of what perhaps never was.
I love how you ground the essay in nostalgia for home. What’s particularly effective is how you don’t presume to know what Mrs Greengard and her daughter made of their visit. Limiting yourself to imagining which rooms they entered, where they might have paused, and where a hand might have brushed a doorframe, eloquently illustrates your point that we can’t remember for others.
It makes me wonder what the real answer to Mrs Greengard’s daughter’s question was: “Do you think it would be possible for my mom to see the house again?” Yes, she could see your house; but was she able to see her old home in that? Maybe the presence of the weathered plaque and other little details she might have recognised were enough for her to see her home again in her mind.
I’ve been thinking about this as well, and I wish I knew the answer. It’s wild how memory works–it was the process of writing this essay that brought back the memory (and question about the meaning) of their visit…Thank you so much, Simon.
This is such an evocative follow up to your The Art of Memory, Brigitte. In that story, I also found the sound of your mother's younger voice especially moving. In this piece, the detail of Mrs. Greengard looking for the plaque really stood out to me – and how special that it was there for her to find. I really liked seeing it, made me want to make my own for our house.
Something special happens in the combination of the Greengard visit and the layers of your sister's reaction and your untangling of it – "But can memories ever belong to anyone but the one who holds them?".
Thank you, Marie, for your time to read and help me edit this story, and for picking up on some of the nuances that felt so resonant to me. And the layering of these two stories has brought the memory (and honoring) of the Greengard family closer to me.
I love the idea of telling stories to remember ourselves and get closer to ourselves, and the journey you share here of looking for that mirroring outside of yourself, feeling the pain of not finding it, and realizing you are capable of giving this to yourself.
This is so beautiful Brigitte. First off, your writing is just phenomenal. It's so warm and poignant and inviting. And the way you wrote it, the sort of braided vignettes, is wonderful.
Also really thought-provoking about memory, what it's for, how it mutates intra and interpersonally. That feeling of sharing a vulnerable piece and getting a completely unexpected reaction is so relatable.
This is now my favorite of your essays. A beautiful meditation on memory and the passage of time, and I love how you weave together your memories of your childhood home with another family's memories of your current one. What a lovely way to show how time and memory connect us all. Beautifully and thoughtfully written. This quote especially resonated:
"How young I had been, joyfully renovating, eager to brush fresh color and future on its walls; how I didn't think much of painting also over the Greengards' family stories held within them."
"The loneliness of holding a memory that no longer seemed to belong to both of us" is such a specific and acute pain, and you wrote about it beautifully here. I've been thinking a lot about memory lately, so I'm very happy to have stumbled across your work.
I was reminded as well of a thought experiment I heard mentioned in a podcast years ago - who would you be if all the things you remembered exchanged places with all the things you forgot? It's just a question that's stayed with me ever since I heard it.
This is a great piece, Brigitte. It’s nice to see it polished and published. How do you feel about it?
Also: it occurred to me reading this that your sister’s reaction is a portal into her, rather than your essay. Here’s Rick Rubin from his book The Creative Act: “If someone chooses to share feedback, listen to understand the person, not the work. People will tell you more about themselves than about the art when giving feedback. We each see a unique world.”
What a beautiful essay. Your words are filled with grace and elegance. It feels like an angel wrote this. I’m thrilled to have access to your thoughts.
It’s amazing today how, as you said, we can connect so deeply to “perfect strangers” living altogether different lives but still understand and yearning for the same connections we are. Your writing deeply connects with me and shows me what great writing looks like. It’s such a gift.
Brigette, I know we’ve chatted on this one so you know I’m a big fan. I read this one at such a perfect time in my life, at an age where I see distinct differences in how my elderly parents remember (or don’t) moments from my childhood that are so vivid to me. And I realize my kids are now experiencing their own versions of memories I’ll hold as a parent, likely in a different way than they remember them. Thanks for writing this, especially in the format that you used. This one was special for me. 🙏
Matt, thank you so much, and it’s special to me that this piece is special to you ✨
This essay is beautiful Brigitte! I’ve had similar realizations of how different memories can be between siblings. You really brought your childhood home and family to life for me.
Thank you, Emily, also for giving me such helpful pointers during the editing process.
Great lines! We share a part of our childhood and memories. I know the brown carpet an the old armchair of your father (my uncle) and I felt transported years back. That‘s why you also remembered a bit for me and I feel with you when the tears come to your eyes. Keep the memories in you, they become more important when loved ones who appear in it are no longer among us. You surely know, what I mean…Even though I‘m so far away, I feel so close to you. Thank you very much 🫶🏼
Oh Annette, liebe Annette! ❤️ You just made my morning and I have again tears in my eyes. You ARE one of the few people in my life who DO remember the brown carpet and armchair ha! Thank you—for being in my life, for being who you are, and for reading my words.
Oh, my Brigitte - what an exquisite piece - the way you wove together your experiences, your memories, and the grace for your sister. It's a hallmark for all of us to consider as we live our lives and derive meaning from it.
This: "The tears felt heavy, lonely without hers."
And this: "Perhaps it held little for her today, or perhaps more than she was ready to touch."
And this: "As though her eyes on them might prove that they mattered."
And this: "We can’t remember for others."
I could go on....
One thing that you've made me realize is how my brother and sisters, since my father passed away, make new memories out of the old memories that are individual to each of us. We find when we are together, seeing my mom, who is still living, that we all bring up personal memories that the rest of us don't remember. And then, we tell stories about those individual memories and, in the process, create new ones that we all share.
I honor the depth of this profound essay Brigitte.
James—how did I miss responding to your beautiful comment!? It’s so thoughtful, especially this:
"One thing that you've made me realize is how my brother and sisters, since my father passed away, make new memories out of the old memories that are individual to each of us."
What an inspiring and hopeful message, I thank you for that 🙏
This is quite remarkable. It’s an essay that covers so much, yet manages to do so without ever feeling cluttered. Stories of now, stories of then, memories of what has been merging with memories of what perhaps never was.
I love how you ground the essay in nostalgia for home. What’s particularly effective is how you don’t presume to know what Mrs Greengard and her daughter made of their visit. Limiting yourself to imagining which rooms they entered, where they might have paused, and where a hand might have brushed a doorframe, eloquently illustrates your point that we can’t remember for others.
It makes me wonder what the real answer to Mrs Greengard’s daughter’s question was: “Do you think it would be possible for my mom to see the house again?” Yes, she could see your house; but was she able to see her old home in that? Maybe the presence of the weathered plaque and other little details she might have recognised were enough for her to see her home again in her mind.
I’ve been thinking about this as well, and I wish I knew the answer. It’s wild how memory works–it was the process of writing this essay that brought back the memory (and question about the meaning) of their visit…Thank you so much, Simon.
This is such an evocative follow up to your The Art of Memory, Brigitte. In that story, I also found the sound of your mother's younger voice especially moving. In this piece, the detail of Mrs. Greengard looking for the plaque really stood out to me – and how special that it was there for her to find. I really liked seeing it, made me want to make my own for our house.
Something special happens in the combination of the Greengard visit and the layers of your sister's reaction and your untangling of it – "But can memories ever belong to anyone but the one who holds them?".
Thank you, Marie, for your time to read and help me edit this story, and for picking up on some of the nuances that felt so resonant to me. And the layering of these two stories has brought the memory (and honoring) of the Greengard family closer to me.
I love the idea of telling stories to remember ourselves and get closer to ourselves, and the journey you share here of looking for that mirroring outside of yourself, feeling the pain of not finding it, and realizing you are capable of giving this to yourself.
Thank you Rick 🙏
This is so beautiful Brigitte. First off, your writing is just phenomenal. It's so warm and poignant and inviting. And the way you wrote it, the sort of braided vignettes, is wonderful.
Also really thought-provoking about memory, what it's for, how it mutates intra and interpersonally. That feeling of sharing a vulnerable piece and getting a completely unexpected reaction is so relatable.
I’m happy this resonated with you, Alex. Love the way you put this: "how it [memory] mutates intra and interpersonally." Thank you.
This is now my favorite of your essays. A beautiful meditation on memory and the passage of time, and I love how you weave together your memories of your childhood home with another family's memories of your current one. What a lovely way to show how time and memory connect us all. Beautifully and thoughtfully written. This quote especially resonated:
"How young I had been, joyfully renovating, eager to brush fresh color and future on its walls; how I didn't think much of painting also over the Greengards' family stories held within them."
This means a lot, Rachel. Thank you for your beautiful comment, your invaluable input…and telling me which lines resonated with you most ✨
"The loneliness of holding a memory that no longer seemed to belong to both of us" is such a specific and acute pain, and you wrote about it beautifully here. I've been thinking a lot about memory lately, so I'm very happy to have stumbled across your work.
I was reminded as well of a thought experiment I heard mentioned in a podcast years ago - who would you be if all the things you remembered exchanged places with all the things you forgot? It's just a question that's stayed with me ever since I heard it.
Jacob—your question…I can’t stop thinking about it. WOW.
Haha, it hasn't left my mind since I heard it!
This is a great piece, Brigitte. It’s nice to see it polished and published. How do you feel about it?
Also: it occurred to me reading this that your sister’s reaction is a portal into her, rather than your essay. Here’s Rick Rubin from his book The Creative Act: “If someone chooses to share feedback, listen to understand the person, not the work. People will tell you more about themselves than about the art when giving feedback. We each see a unique world.”
This is an interesting perspective you’re adding here and I’ll try to consider and internalize this more moving forward.
I like the piece for its many portals and layers, and I thank you for your guidance & encouragement, Harrison.
What a beautiful essay. Your words are filled with grace and elegance. It feels like an angel wrote this. I’m thrilled to have access to your thoughts.
It’s amazing today how, as you said, we can connect so deeply to “perfect strangers” living altogether different lives but still understand and yearning for the same connections we are. Your writing deeply connects with me and shows me what great writing looks like. It’s such a gift.
This is the sweetest compliment ever, Kathy 💛
This is great Brigitte. I love the structure, the flow, the vivid descriptions and the so many questions I’m left pondering by the end.
Thank you so much, Alan 🙏