The last couple of days have been awash with nostalgia. Cleaning out the storage shed has mostly been opening boxes and boxes of memories.
That to the Sell Pile.
That to the Auction pile.
That is goes back in storage.
And all of that was just the family storage. Now I am digging into my boxes and boxes of my memorbilia. I've always been a bit of a pack rat - but for reasons. These boxes contain my life. I know I need to get rid of some things; condense a little. But that is so much easier said than done.
I need to keep the photos, of course; my visual guide to my life.
Then there are the items. Random things - every kind of thing you can think of; from a teddy bear, to a shoe, to etched martini glasses. Each thing is not just the thing itself - but a representation of something more. A momento of a particular time in my life.
Of course, there is the endless piles of cards, programs, awards, and newspaper articles. Hard copy records of all the things I have done, or seen. Proof on paper that I existed; that people cared.
But there are other things too. Things that no one else would ever imagine I would keep. But I do. I hold on to them too - because I hold on to everything.
Example: papers from my Creative Non-Fiction classes. Not my papers - but the others'. I know, it is ridiculous - why would I keep those? I keep them because everytime I read their works, I am reminded of one of the most special classes I have ever taken. For an hour and a half on Tuesdays and Thursdays a group of relative strangers got together and beared our souls on papers. We wrote, we read, we shared. I knew the inner struggles, hopes, pains, and plans of these fellow students without usually remembering their names. It was the best experience I had in a classroom situation.
Then there is the unexplained. A pair of rusted keys my friends and I found in our hideout in the trees. We went there during recess and discovered them hidden beneath the shrubs. Being the romantics we are, we conjured up stories of how those keys came to be there, what they were to, and who hid them. I don't know anything about these keys - but I can't get rid of them.
So I don't get rid of them, and I reorganize everything to shrink three boxes into one. My parents shake their heads and laugh at me - and all I do is fret over all of the missing links that I do not have. What about the review in the Northern Student for that show? What happened to the program from my senior project? Where is that picture of you and me my freshman year?
What if I forget about it?