Is this why I remember so much?

I’ve often wondered why I remember so many details from my childhood... tiny moments, faces, the sound of laughter in a certain room or the smell of particular things. My sister always jokes that I must be secretly much older than I claim to be...because, in her words, “no one remembers that much from when they were little.” But I think I know the real reason : my grandfather.

One of the kindest, most calming presences I’ve ever known. He was deeply intellectual...someone who read, thought and observed. He had moved from our village in Panjsher to the city, determined to build a better future for his children. Through hard work and quiet perseverance, he made sure each of them had a good upbringing, an education and a stable life. But despite all the responsibilities he carried, he never lost his warmth, his gentleness or his ability to pause and tell a story.

He had a gift for storytelling, and his favorite stories were about me (about everyone, but let’s just assume I was the favorite). From the little things I did as a child to the funny quirks I had growing up, he shared them with so much love and pride. He repeated them often...so often, in fact, that I could recite them myself. But I never minded. Every retelling made the memories feel so alive, as if they had just happened yesterday.

He didn’t just tell stories about me. He brought to life the adventures of his children...the world of my father, my uncles and aunts and the stories of those who came before us. Because of him, I grew up surrounded by stories that grounded me, connected me and made me endlessly curious to know more. It’s no surprise that I’ve held on to so many of those memories...they were gifts, carefully handed down to me, one story at a time.

There was one story he loved to tell about me from when I was around three years old. There was a mosque just a few houses down from ours and my grandfather used to go there regularly. I would often follow him, delighted to be near him and even more delighted to guard his shoes outside while he prayed inside. One day, while he was praying with others, I decided to do more than just guard them...I picked up his shoes and took them back home with me. When he came out, he looked everywhere, wondering where they had gone. Little did he know, his tiny granddaughter had "secured" them at home, believing she was protecting what was his...what was ours.

He would always laugh while telling this story, but what stayed with me was the way he would say it meant I already knew how to protect the people and things I loved. That even as a toddler, I had a sense of care, of belonging.

It didn’t matter how many times I had heard it...what mattered was the way he told it. The sparkle in his eye, the rhythm of his voice, the little chuckle at the end...it all stayed with me. And maybe that’s why I remember so much. Maybe memory isn’t always about what happened, but about how it was passed down...with love, with pride and with presence.

And perhaps that's why I decided to write now...to keep the memories alive, the way he always did.