On the last night of
our Disney vacation, I found myself a weeping mess. I was in front of the
mirror, trying to pull it together to finish my makeup, and I could not stop
the tears.
I wasn’t crying because we were leaving. Nor was I crying because we were traveling back home to freezing temperatures (though that reason was a close second). And I wasn’t crying because I was overwhelmed by the whole Disney experience; like many, many little ones. I was crying because this was another fleeting moment in time. Another flickering moment that I desperately wanted time to stop, just enough to let me breathe it in.
My childhood was spent vacationing in Walt Disney World. I can remember moments from every trip, though the early memories are no doubt from photographs tucked away in my mom’s Disney albums. Being terrified of King Louie the Monkey at age 2. Meeting up with my childhood best friends in Epcot at age 5. My sister’s moody, teenage, “I refuse to smile on this trip” vacation at age 9. Getting sick on the Disney bus at age 12 and my mom resorting to using my new hat to “catch” the vomit. Bringing a best friend with me at age 17; and wearing our Tigger and Eeyore ears throughout the entire vacation. And then, at age 22, a new memory: On this trip, it was just my mom and I. Two kindred Disney spirits, two best friends. On this particular trip, I remember leaving the Magic Kingdom on our final night, looking over my shoulder for one last view of the castle, and completely breaking down. I remember my Mom hugged me, crying as well, and she asked “Why are YOU crying?” The crying was simple, the explanation was not. I was finally old enough to see that my childhood was marked with these trips, these amazing moments. I grew up there and that “growing up” was coming to an end. I was crying because I knew time was passing. And that the next time I visited Disney, it would most likely be with my own children. And the tradition would continue. Heavy stuff for a 22 year-old.
So, last Saturday night, my husband found me sobbing (poor guy deals with this a lot). Because, this was another moment on my timeline. Another moment that came and went, much too fast. A moment that you want to hold onto; and make a movie in your head so you can revisit these feelings, this genuine happiness. I knew that the next time we visited Disney would likely be drastically different. It’s probable that my daughter will have no desire to wait in lines to capture Minnie’s autograph. Will the awe and wonder be gone in my son’s eyes because he is now an ‘old pro’ at this? Who knows? And dare I say, that it could even be possible that another little one is there with us? I can’t answer that right now, but it’s always a possibility. Whatever the circumstances and whenever the time, all I know is that it will be different. And this time, this moment has passed.
So, when we got on the Magical Express on Sunday morning to take us to the airport, I watched my 6 year-old as she sat at the back of the bus. My overly exuberant daughter was oddly subdued and quiet, staring out the window for a long period of time. When I finally broke the silence and called her name, she turned to me with silent tears. I kissed the top of her head, wiped away the wetness and simply said, “I know, Maggie. I feel it, too.” A precious moment in time that twinkled and is now gone. All that’s left is the memories. Magnificent memories that I am immensely grateful for, but memories all the same.
“I know this much:
that there is objective time, but also subjective time, the kind you wear on
the inside of your wrist, next to where the pulse lies. And this personal time,
which is the true time, is measured in your relationship to memory.” - Julian
Barnes
I wasn’t crying because we were leaving. Nor was I crying because we were traveling back home to freezing temperatures (though that reason was a close second). And I wasn’t crying because I was overwhelmed by the whole Disney experience; like many, many little ones. I was crying because this was another fleeting moment in time. Another flickering moment that I desperately wanted time to stop, just enough to let me breathe it in.
My childhood was spent vacationing in Walt Disney World. I can remember moments from every trip, though the early memories are no doubt from photographs tucked away in my mom’s Disney albums. Being terrified of King Louie the Monkey at age 2. Meeting up with my childhood best friends in Epcot at age 5. My sister’s moody, teenage, “I refuse to smile on this trip” vacation at age 9. Getting sick on the Disney bus at age 12 and my mom resorting to using my new hat to “catch” the vomit. Bringing a best friend with me at age 17; and wearing our Tigger and Eeyore ears throughout the entire vacation. And then, at age 22, a new memory: On this trip, it was just my mom and I. Two kindred Disney spirits, two best friends. On this particular trip, I remember leaving the Magic Kingdom on our final night, looking over my shoulder for one last view of the castle, and completely breaking down. I remember my Mom hugged me, crying as well, and she asked “Why are YOU crying?” The crying was simple, the explanation was not. I was finally old enough to see that my childhood was marked with these trips, these amazing moments. I grew up there and that “growing up” was coming to an end. I was crying because I knew time was passing. And that the next time I visited Disney, it would most likely be with my own children. And the tradition would continue. Heavy stuff for a 22 year-old.
So, last Saturday night, my husband found me sobbing (poor guy deals with this a lot). Because, this was another moment on my timeline. Another moment that came and went, much too fast. A moment that you want to hold onto; and make a movie in your head so you can revisit these feelings, this genuine happiness. I knew that the next time we visited Disney would likely be drastically different. It’s probable that my daughter will have no desire to wait in lines to capture Minnie’s autograph. Will the awe and wonder be gone in my son’s eyes because he is now an ‘old pro’ at this? Who knows? And dare I say, that it could even be possible that another little one is there with us? I can’t answer that right now, but it’s always a possibility. Whatever the circumstances and whenever the time, all I know is that it will be different. And this time, this moment has passed.
So, when we got on the Magical Express on Sunday morning to take us to the airport, I watched my 6 year-old as she sat at the back of the bus. My overly exuberant daughter was oddly subdued and quiet, staring out the window for a long period of time. When I finally broke the silence and called her name, she turned to me with silent tears. I kissed the top of her head, wiped away the wetness and simply said, “I know, Maggie. I feel it, too.” A precious moment in time that twinkled and is now gone. All that’s left is the memories. Magnificent memories that I am immensely grateful for, but memories all the same.
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