Good, Bad, OK, and All the Memories

    I have been thinking a lot of my memory box lately. It’s an old CD case that (I have to say, obviously) no one had used in years. Inside live trinkets and paper scraps, perfume samples and an obsidian arrowhead. There’s a story in there somewhere. I wondered why I don’t open it more often.

    I think memories need to marinate. You need to let them sit until you’re ready to consume them (or let them consume you). Like a good book–the way I refused to read the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants series until summer vacation to not ruin it with the presence of school. I saw something once that said old books are so thick because they’re filled with what you felt when you read them, old heartache and laughs.

    I wonder often if I’ll take the case to college with me. What will leave, what will stay? Do you forget everything, wipe away and start again? How do you move forward if you don’t? I’m glad I’m not so scared of that anymore. I’ve been able to love in a soft grip. A baby kind of love. I don’t want to hold too hard. It’s working well.

    I’ve decided I’d rather be sad and happy in that ugly endless loop (winter included). I’m glad I feel. I’m glad I’m sensitive. That’s the end of that story. It’s part of me. No more “how does it affect you?” It’s good. No part of me is going to be picked apart and relisted based on value. It’s all good, it’s all priceless. Love is cheap–so is holding onto memories. Good and bad.

    The box isn’t open now, but I can open it when I’m ready, if I need it. I don’t need to decide what to take yet, not for a few more months. I am happy and sad. It’s winter again. It’ll be a long ride. I’m scared and that’s ok. I don’t know if this counts as a poem or not. That’s ok too. It’ll be ok.