Tuesday, June 14, 2011


Triggered by the smallest thing, a book, a smell, they flood into me. Nothing I've consciously repressed, although not something I love to dwell on.

Cleaning brings them all rushing to the forefront. The small tokens I've tucked away, long forgotten.

Today it was a book.

A book that brought with it reminders of a lost friendship. A deep hurt, that, no matter how much time has passed, will still spring up, unexpected.

It's the one thing I threw across the room. Right onto the give-away pile. I am glad to have it gone.

And I am doing my best to let go of the lingering hurt.

Today it was a chapstick.

The one brand I always used for band. For the better parts of three years, I used one chapstick, readying my lips to play the French Horn.

Band is in my past, now. I wish it wasn't. It wasn't by choice.

But just the smell of that chapstick takes me back.

Lifting the horn out of the blue velvet case, feeling the sharp edge of the bell on my leg, the cold metal on my lips.

A whole room of tapping feet, trying to stay on time.

But now it's all tinged with sadness and regret. Just one more thing my illness took from me. It's in the distant past, but that chapstick brings it roaring back into my present.

At the end of the day, I collapse into bed, exhausted from a day of cleaning. All the memories swirling around me. But it still feels good to do. To clean out the old junk, to see and touch my past, before it is either tossed out the door or hidden back into a drawer, waiting for the next cleaning fever to hit.

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