I remember, as a child, coming to the realization that a moment would never happen again, that each experience in life was unique and non-repeatable. I am sure that followed the first losses I experienced, of my uncle and then my aunt about six months apart, when I was 10. My father was devastated at the loss of his brother-in-law and then his sister and I realized for the first time, although I didn’t fully comprehend it, that life was both finite and fragile.

And while it was not a conscious choice, I remember the feeling that I had to hold onto moments in life, that I might not have them again.

I have a vivid memory of sitting on my father’s lap, a place I often perched. He was reading at the dining room table. I see it clearly in my mind and I still feel the hug I gave him and the one he gave me back before I jumped off and was on to the next thing. It was the first time I remember thinking “I have to hold onto this moment with my Dad.” And while, at 10, I didn’t understand why and would likely not have made the connection between loss and the desire to save memories and feelings, I know that is where it originated.

Saving moments is something I have consistently done for as long as I can remember. I can summon up those moments, how they felt emotionally and even physically. I have a moment I treasure of standing beside the pool at my brother’s home. We had just arrived and he gave me the warm hug that only he could give. I knew, at that instant, that I had it hold that moment forever and I am grateful that I have as his love has surrounded me, despite his absence, for more years than I care to count.

I can feel the warmth of my mother, I can smell her ever present Youth Dew scent. I can bring forth the feel and smell of warm babies as I fed them and held each of them in the middle of the night. So many special moments, each one a time that I thought, “I have to save this.”

Today, we had the gift of spending time with our youngest grandchild. We built (he built and I assisted!) with Legos and we raced the little cars he made along an “obstacle course” he created with boxes and papers and a line up of all of his shoes. It was silly and it was fun but, most of all, it was joyful and a memory I knew I wanted to hold. His pleasure, his humor, his energy are all part of who he is, but I know that this one afternoon and the smiles on his face are ones that will stay in my heart.

Life changes constantly. We are not who we were yesterday or who we will be tomorrow. Holding our moments of joy close, not just the memory but the feeling, enriches our lives and our being, helping us to always fill our full heart.