Opus 2024-217: Composites

I was thinking of family, friends, and other people that I know, and how I see them when I look at them.  I realize that often I do not see them as they are.  In fact, it’s probably normal not to see them as they are.  What I see is a composite.

I think of my son.  When we sit talking on a weekly basis at a steak restaurant or one of the weird places that he likes to eat, I don’t see a 44 year old techie.  What I see is 44 years of close interaction.  I see the infant that I’m walking around the floor at three in the morning, trying to get it to go to sleep.  I see myself pausing in front of a mirror and looking over my shoulder, hoping to see eyes closed.  Instead, I have these two big round orbs staring back at me.  I see the legs kicking out as my child frantically flees down the hallway, trying to get away from me as I crawl after him, and the screams of joy coming out of his mouth in the excitement of the moment.

I could keep going listing all of the things that are in this composite, but I can’t remember them all.  They are still there though, even if I can’t remember them.  So when I see him, I see what no one else sees.

I think that may be common to all of us in our intimate relationships.  New acquaintances we look at on the surface and see what there is to see.  When we walked by someone at the grocery store, all we see are clothes and skin.  There are no memories in those encounters.  But for those that have been a part of our life for a long time we have composites.  Think of how your emotions change when you see a stranger and then suddenly realize it is someone you care about.  I remember when I was in Army basic training, head shaved, dressed in fatigues and my own mother did not recognize me.  Her face changed when she realized it was her second born.

So many memories to be blessed with.  An even greater blessing is that we don’t need to remember every one of them to get the savor of the whole package.

homo unius libri