An ode to the power of memories, those precious jewels we collect in our hearts that enliven the soul…
by: Matias Travieso-Diaz
Just a perfect day, drink sangria in a park, and then later, when it gets dark, we go home — Lou Reed, “Perfect Day“
We were hit by a massive storm last night. As thunder boomed, the dogs whimpered and hid under the bed pillows. The sky flared with violent flashes of lightning. We lost power and I found myself without internet service. I cursed the storm, feeling a little annoyed at the inconvenience it caused.
This morning, still half asleep, I made my way to the porch, a cup of coffee and a bowl of cherries at hand. I sat on my favorite armchair and began trying to think of a topic for a new story I intended to write. Since it was summer, my thoughts turned to the ocean and I started daydreaming about waves breaking gently on a sandy beach. All of a sudden, the noise of a lawnmower startled me and all thoughts of the sea immediately flew away.
The thunderstorm had actually left a present in its wake. The sky was completely clear, an infinite blue canvas smeared by plump white clouds that seemed in no rush to move on. The sunlight was so intense that I was almost blinded by its reflection on the leaves of the trees that cluster behind my house and stretch down the ravine. The oppressive heat of July was weeks away, so the greens of the new foliage and the light pinks and mauves of the blooming peonies still retained their youthful splendor.
The lawnmower fell silent and all was quiet again, except for an occasional chirping. I looked towards the deck and began noticing couples of wild birds gathering at the feeder, raiding it, and flying away to hide somewhere beneath the bushes. It was mating season, and the little rascals were enjoying the joys of abundant food and seasonal lasciviousness.
I realized then that my thoughts did not need to travel to a distant shore to find a topic for my next tale. A story was unfolding for me, and all I needed to do to capture it was let my senses bathe in the glory of this summer day. I searched in my tablet for the YouTube channel and located a recording of the Archduke Trio, perhaps the best example of Beethoven’s “unbuttoned period” in which he composed several works of marvelous wit and lightness. The sounds of the rippling piano notes that rose and fell gently and were caressed in turn by responses from the cello and the violin were perfect complements to the visual feast I was witnessing. Before I realized it, I had drunk my coffee and eaten all the cherries, and what was left of them were the coffee’s aftertaste and a faint memory of the fruit’s complexity. I would soon have to rise and return to the kitchen to get more fruit and perhaps eat a real breakfast.
But I was not ready to go yet. I had to let this moment of unique enjoyment run its course. I wondered how long I would be able to withstand the rising temperature before I needed to flee to air-conditioned comfort. There was a slight breeze that helped me linger on a few more minutes, as I listened to the music and kept admiring the birds in their ceaseless errands. Finally, with a sigh, I repaired indoors.
Another perfect summer day, this one much earlier in in my life, was Saturday, September 1, 1979. The night before, I had arrived in Cape May, New Jersey to spend the Labor Day weekend as a guest in a beach house rented by a group of professionals. On arrival, I had met Fran, who was to become my future wife and the love of my life, and had gone out with her and my other hosts to a disappointing restaurant dinner in which she largely ignored me.
The following morning was sunny, and the beach house renters followed their usual routine of grabbing a quick early breakfast and heading for the ocean, hoping to reach their destination before the shore got too crowded with other vacationers. I went with the group to a secluded beach and deposited myself on a blanket next to Fran, who was seated on a beach chair reading a novel and trying to ignore me again. I resorted to voicing an intentional put down of her profession as a psychotherapist and succeeded in gaining her full attention, and we engaged in animated debate as the morning drew on. To this day I recall the touch of the breeze on my cheeks, the murmur of the waves breaking a few feet away, and the satisfaction of making inroads into establishing a bond with a smart and beautiful woman. That morning, which was the start of a lifelong romance, was as perfect a day as I can remember.
Perfect days can be found at different times in the calendar and at every stage in one’s life. Also, of course, what qualifies as a perfect day varies from time to time and from one person to another. The important thing is for one to be able to recognize (perhaps in retrospect) that such a day is occurring and enjoy it for its rarity and the pleasure it brings.
Life is often rife with sadness and pain. It is the memory of those perfect days that makes the other ones more bearable. Like that distant Saturday in Cape May, those days should be collected in our hearts as precious jewels to be dusted off and enjoyed time and again, for they remind us that, for all its challenges, life is eminently worth living.
Born in Cuba, Matias Travieso-Diaz migrated to the United States as a young man. He became an engineer and lawyer and practiced for nearly fifty years. After retirement, he took up creative writing. Over two hundred and seventy of his short stories have been published or accepted for publication in anthologies, magazines, blogs, audio books, and podcasts. One of his four novels, an autobiography entitled Cuban Transplant, and four anthologies of his stories have also been published.
