They are bittersweet, these days of sorting and purging and packing. Cleansing, to toss the bags and boxes of trash built up from years of forgetfulness and laziness. Ancient academic and financial papers that lost significance years ago. Broken bits of this and that forgotten in corners and closets. Outgrown clothes and toys and books and decorations.
Much of the undertaking is simple. I have lost much (though by no means all) of my need for Things. I feel less sentimentality about objects than I once did, no longer harbor an obsession with keeping anything and everything that might have importance. I prize relationships more highly than possessions these days, for nothing I owned made any difference when my life fell apart. People did.
The difficult part of this task, the bitterness on my tongue, lies with the memories. Too many of them, as I page through photos and scrapbooks and memorabilia: the detritus of a life lived as someone else, with someone else. What is linked to my children I kept, divided, parceled out according to affiliation. Certain other pieces, less shadowed, met the same treatment.
Much I discarded.
They are too bitter, those memories of loss and failure.
He thinks I hate him. I don't. But neither can I cling to a past that is laced eternally with gall and acid.
Besides, the memories will never be erased. They are an indelible part of me, nearly half the chapters that make up my life.
And now? Now it is time to turn the page.
3 years ago