“Take me down your old street
Tell me your memories of when you were young and when you fell in love
Drive me through the country
Tell me your story and you can play all of your favorite songs
‘Cause I’m gonna need this
When I’m holding pictures of you and that’s all that I’ve got left
All that I’ve got left”
“Momma Song” by Benson Boone
Memory is a prism. Hold it one way and the light catches joy. Tilt it slightly, and the shadows appear.
Maybe that’s why I’ve always been fascinated by perception—how people, especially family, can share the same moment, the same conversations, the same home—and yet come away with completely different stories.
It’s fascinating—and also maddening.
Distraction and distortion.
Maybe we’re just wired differently. Maybe one of us was preoccupied with a new boyfriend—or girlfriend—or the Leafs blowing yet another lead. Or maybe “one of us” was just hangry.😳
I blame it on low blood sugar. And poor meal planning.
What we remember.
Some remember the way the smoke from a mother’s cigarette danced in the morning sunlight as they cuddled in bed, listening to 1290-CBJK on her analog dial radio. Others remember the tension that lingered after their parents’ bitter divorce. Some remember the tone of someone’s voice. A look. A feeling.
Or D) All of the above.
It’s why siblings argue over who started it, even a decade later.
It’s why some memories, when held to the light, shimmer with both beauty and heartache.
And it’s why I often lay awake at night, wondering how many versions of me exist in the memories of others—and whether any of them match the one I carry inside.
Legends and lies.
Some memories get retold so often they stop being memories and become legend. Some lies, left unchallenged, become the truth. Did the passenger really cause my grandfather’s truck to overturn?
Did I really lose my ring?
Sometimes, it’s not about what actually happened—it’s about what we felt when it did.
Not the historian. Just the heart.
In every family, there’s a designated historian. You know the one—the cousin who can recite the birth year, zodiac sign, and name of that third-cousin-seventeen-times-removed, complete with a laminated, colour-coded spreadsheet to prove it.
I’m not that person.
But I’ve always collected the stories—the ones that live in the quiet corners. The feelings. The smells. The sounds.
The sticky stuff.
The gifts of imperfection.
We go to great lengths to pass on our possessions to future generations, but we often miss the opportunity to share the sticky stuff that holds us together—and also keeps us apart.
The milestones and emotions not only reveal surprising, delightful, and sometimes even unsettling truths about who we are, but when held to the light, even the most ordinary moments can become touchstones. Quiet markers left behind to offer direction—and maybe a meaningful connection—for those we love, who will one day walk this path long after I’m gone. Or you’re gone. I mean… when we’re gone. All of us. Eventually.
And let’s not forget about that Spicy Chicken Dip recipe. Some legacies are just too delicious not to share.
Because when we share our stories—our memories—especially the uncomfortable or imperfect ones—we’re not just reminiscing. We’re opening ourselves up, giving others a chance to see us—and maybe themselves—more clearly.
And in doing so, we leave behind something deeper than memories.