How much Dina Aunty relished her memories. Mummy and Daddy were the same, talking about their yesterdays and smiling in that sad-happy way while selecting each picture, each frame from the past, examining it lovingly before it vanished again in the mist. But nobody ever forgot anything, not really, though sometimes they pretended, when it suited them. Memories were permanent. Sorrowful ones remained sad even with the passing of time, yet happy ones could never be re-created - not with the same joy. Remembering bred its own peculiar sorrow. It seemed so unfair: that time should render both sadness and happiness into a source of pain.
So what was the point of possessing memory? It didn't help anything. In the end it was all hopeless...no amount of remembering the happy days, no amount of yearning or nostalgia could change a thing about the misery and suffering - love and concern and caring came to nothing, nothing.
Everything ended badly, and memory only made it worse, tormenting and taunting. Unless. Unless you lost your mind...the slate wiped clean. No more remembering, no more suffering.
Rohinton Mistry, A Fine Balance