Today was a day for the memory books, though not in the way you might expect. My youngest and I headed over to my mom’s place with a very specific mission: to transform two Hawaiian dad shirts—one lemons, one limes—into a single, Frankenstein-esque masterpiece. It’s my kiddo’s favorite, and honestly, the idea of this goofy, vibrant shirt just brings a smile to my face.
As we worked, I found myself doing something I rarely do anymore: getting completely lost in the moment. I was mentally filing away every detail: how to perfectly cut the fabric, the subtle art of replacing buttons, and even the cadence of my mom’s voice as she patiently taught Haze how to iron. It was more than just a sewing project; it was an investment in a future memory, a digital blueprint for when I’ll need to teach Haze these very skills myself, long after my mom isn’t there to do it.
My mother, bless her heart, is a digital archivist in human form. Every stray piece of string, every leftover scrap of fabric, is meticulously saved for a future project. The other halves of those Hawaiian shirts? Already earmarked for Haze’s ever-expanding collection of dad shirts. It’s truly amazing how she can see the potential in everything, turning discards into future treasures.
The highlight of the day, though, was capturing a video of my mom instructing Haze on ironing. Watching them together, the simple act of flattening fabric becoming a shared lesson, stirred something deep within me. Suddenly, I had this overwhelming desire to come over every single day and just iron with my mom. It brought back a flood of memories from my teens and young adulthood, sitting and listening to her gossip while she ironed, soaking it all in.
“Dear God,” I prayed silently, “Help me preserve these moments. For this is heaven.” And truly, it felt that way. These aren’t just moments; they’re the fabric of our lives, stitched together with love, and the quiet wisdom passed down through generations.
The Wisdom of Human Hands
The wisdom I was soaking up wasn’t just about how to iron a shirt or sew a button. It was about the inherent value of human connection, of shared tasks and quiet presence. It was the unspoken understanding that comes from generations of hands working together, a kind of knowledge that can’t be replicated by algorithms or screens. In a world increasingly dominated by AI, these moments of tangible, human creation feel more precious than ever.
And could I retain it, with my memory sometimes feeling like a sieve after years of delusions and SZ medication-induced fog? I clung to the hope that these profound experiences, deeply felt and witnessed, embed themselves differently—perhaps not in the sharp, clinical recall of facts, but in the heart, in the spirit. That this particular heaven, so utterly human, would find a way to stick.
Haze, my sweet, discerning Haze, was initially concerned that half of his beloved Hawaiian shirt wasn’t hand-drawn. He’s got an artist’s eye, and noted that one of the two halves was human-drawn. But when I pointed out that it was, indeed, stitched by hand, a different kind of appreciation settled over him. It wasn’t about the original design; it was about the effort, the care, the human touch that brought it together. That seemed to appease him, and in that moment, I knew we were holding onto something truly special.
Nevermind the fact that buildings everywhere were shrinking (not just the downtown skyline and The Classen, others too were now shrinking) and the landfill was growing even looking down as far as 5 miles down the street.