On Memories

One Saturday morning my friend Mariana and I decided to go on a shopping trip to Chinatown. Things
didn’t go quite as we had expected: it was pouring down (yet most stores were crowded), and we
hadn’t found anything we liked enough to spend our money on. Reluctant to leave the place without
buying something first, I rushed into a store I and bought one of those allegedly cure-it-all balms that
come in little tin boxes that the Chinese venerate. Would it cure my sore throat? Maybe, I didn’t know.
I slipped it in my purse and ran to catch the next bus home.

A few days later, I was searching through my purse when I suddenly felt like I was in Maryland once
again, during the winter days. I knew I hadn’t traveled 6 years back in time, but for some reason that
fantasy felt real. When I found the tiger balm and realized it smelled like peppermint and cinnamon it
all made sense: during the Christmas time, Americans decorate their homes with ornaments made of
peppermint candy bars and cinnamon bark. It turns out that smells can trigger memories we had
forgotten about, memories we didn’t even know we had made. And with the memory of that smell
came an emotional waterfall. My eyes filled with tears and I felt as homesick as I hardly ever feel. The
balm wasn’t just a balm anymore, it was a constant reminder of the place where I felt the happiest, it
represented my innocent teenage dreams, it was that little bit of Maryland air I could never take with
me. This time the memory was tangible and could be smelt. To most people that is just a little tin box,
but I will treasure it forever.

Truth is things are just things, they might have a symbolic value but I am well aware that they don’t
have any extraordinary time-travel or teleportation power. Yet I always insist on getting a souvenir
wherever I go, and my nightstand drawer if filled with keepsakes and letters I’ve collected over the
years, as if possessing them could keep me closer to the days when I felt truly at my best, the happy
days when I felt blissful, days of intense emotions and strong feelings. Better days.
Things can be bought, the memories they trigger cannot. Memories are recollections of our personal
experience, and as feelings and emotions they’re subjective. Words don’t do justice to them; no matter
how hard we try to convey them nobody but us is able to experience them with the same intensity and
“veracity” as we do. But are memories ever veracious? How could they be? They are impressions, and
even the experiences we’ve shared with other people are recalled differently by them. Memories are
tricky. We tend to forget about the painful and ugly parts and remember only the good stuff, which
sometimes is only an illusion. That explains why we run back to our ex’s arms each time they come
back asking for another chance and swearing to God they’ve changed.

No matter if they are illusions or just an impression, our memories define us, they are the building
blocks of our identity. They’ve given us a sense of belonging, they’ve built our character. Memories
have taught us where we came from and have helped us decide where we want to go.