Keepsakes

By Sam Ostrowski

My mother often recognizes her father in the outline of my shadow. Whether it’s hereditary traits or prophetic rays of sunlight, I appear identical to him in an inky silhouette. I used to pay no mind to this because I had no attachment to him; he died shortly after I was born. Now, though, I see more of his face creeping into my own each day.

I tend to search for glimpses of soul in those long gone, from analyzing old diaries to begging my mom to reveal more about her parents’ unique behaviors and sayings. Above all, I look for something to resurrect and permeate with vitality as I integrate their spirit into mine. It’s impossible for me to eat a slice of apple pie without a sliver of cheddar cheese because, as my grandfather said, “a pie without cheese is like a kiss without a squeeze.” And I can never finish a meal without declaring it either an “elegant sufficiency” or a “super abundancy,” another saying that I think he might have pulled from an old Scottish poet. I always catch myself smiling after I place my fork down, the words begging to be revived once more.

Real life still flows through these sentences, pulsing ceaselessly with brilliant effervescence. And as their eternal hearts beat on, my procuring of these eccentricities allows their lifeblood to flow through mine. As I grow older, I hope to store in me the boundless energy of countless individuals whose stories deserve to live on. I will radiate with spirit and life, and maybe then my face will finally become indistinguishable from my grandfather’s.