As a little boy, I used to love the sensory depth of the world, like the sharp, sweet smell of burning leaves at this time of year. I expect that my grandchildren and yours will never know that smell, and if they do, it will be right before the Fire Department shows up.
We read a lot about new devices and things that make our lives better and simpler, with AI being hailed as the be-all, end-all solution, but not much is said about what we have given up over these last fifty years. When the topic of loss comes up, it’s usually dismissed as mere nostalgia. In a cranky mood, I might rebut, “The smell of burning leaves isn’t a wave of nostalgia; it is a memory worth preserving.”
Every now and then, it is worthwhile to actively call up those memories. Suzy did so when she pulled out old photo albums of the children the other day. For me, a little league game I played in flashed by just the other day, and recalling shared family gatherings brought forth great memories for all of us—like the night Kelley met Barbara Streisand at the White House. These aren’t just moments; they are the living history of our family.
So, why do we fight to keep these memories, whether sensory, shared, or unique? It is because they are more than sentimentality; they are the anchors of our identity. They are the living, tangible threads that define who we are. Memories provide the crucial context that no future technology can replicate, offering a deep well of meaning in an increasingly streamlined and digital world. In our rush toward what’s next, memories offer the necessary counterweight: they ground us in our history, affirm our humanity, and prevent us from becoming weightless in the relentless pursuit of progress. We preserve them not just to remember the past, but to fully inhabit the present as the culmination of everything we’ve experienced.
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