Panic! At the Furniture Store

A while ago, I wanted to recapture the magic of the memories of driving down to Biloxi in the summer with my grandparents. I had been going with them to the casino before I was old enough to step foot in one. Though I spend the majority of the trip in the lobby people watching, or in the room watching tv while my grandparents gambled, it was a taste of freedom and I loved it.

I had it set: I’ll drive down to Biloxi, and I’ll stay at the hotel I’d wanted to enter since I’d first seen it.
Then I thought: nah, I’ll stay at the hotel my grandparents booked every. single. time. You know, for old times sake. For the memories.

It’d make me feel warm and safe when my grandparents returned to the hotel room after a night of gambling. They’d usually bring me something to eat, and we’d sit up and talk over CNN droning on in the background. Then, when I was old enough, I’d tag along and play with slots with my grandparents. I could never hang all night with them, but it was fun while it lasted.

I had to realize that the memories that I’m desperately trying to recreate cannot be replicated. My grandpa is gone; my grandma is nowhere near the figure she was when I was growing up. Those things will never happen ever again.

I recently went in a store my dad and I would frequent; I could feel the start of an anxiety attack. I kept picturing my dad laughing, riding down the aisles on an electric scooter.

I was too overwhelmed, and I didn’t want to have an anxiety attack in At Home, so I left. When I sat and thought about it, I made a connection between shopping with dad and summer trips with my grandparents, which left me wondering if I gone down to Biloxi, would I have the same reaction? To have an emotional panic over memories I will never get to experience again?

Would I hear grandma singing along to the radio during my solo drive? Or feel the nurturing hand of my papa on my shoulder to guide me in my journey?
Or would I create my own memories there, using the trip to pay homage to my grandparents and the memories we shared of countless summers there?

Nobody taught me about dying. Well, besides my mom asking why I was afraid of something I knew was going to happen. Moreover, nobody taught me about grief and how to get through it. How it pops up in the most inopportune time and ruins your day. How simple things like voting (my dad and I would vote together) would make me tear up. Simple things like being in the grocery store and not being able to call my mom to ask what kind of hotdogs I like.

Now I understand those memories are not to be recreated; I don’t have the necessary components. Instead, I cherish those moments, like a book whose chapters have ended. I’ll never get the excitement of living through those experiences again, but it is comforting to look back with gratitude for the time that I did get with those people.

It makes me think differently about my relationships these days. I try to appreciate people in the moment, or of their respective time. Then, if our chapter must end, it’s with that same appreciation that I close the book.

I assume I could take it a step further and apply that same logic to self. I choose what kind of person I want to be. I’ve gone through many phases and while I do miss certain things that have changed in my maturity, I understand and accept that I am a different person. I’m continuing to change and evolve every day.

My whole point here, I guess, is to appreciate life’s moments as they come. One day, you won’t be able to recreate those memories, for whatever reason. So live, and enjoy. Tell people how they make you feel and appreciate them, even the annoying parts. Take inventory of how many good things are happening all around you, even on a bad day.