Before the move these boxes of memories remained well hidden. Boxes stayed stacked, often forgotten beneath that small closet adjacent to the stairs. That was before the move. Now these memories are scattered across the floor, intermingled, laced together like the fingers of newlyweds. Some are newly discovered, or should I say newly remembered? While others remain dark, still lying in wait. The physical act of remembering is never achieved by direct force or concentration of will. Rather, memory remains a particularly slippery character; ever introduced through nuance, association and unsolicited visits. I suppose this is how I remembered elf tea. Elf tea really warrants neither explanation nor exposition; because, like most memories, the significance goes much deeper than mere physical description. Our collective memory rooted us in time, a physical space defined by our presence in foggy January days, when the sky hung like newly poured concrete—eager to harden and solidify its hold over our winter wanderings. Though memories like these often adopt a more nostalgic nature, I think I can unequivocally say that I was happy…we were happy. There was no particular reason for our happiness; or at least none that I can point to. Our happiness, rather, seemed to resemble elf tea: a blend, a lovingly concocted hybrid of ingredients that, when enjoyed alone were more than sufficient to satisfy—but when applied together, formed something greater. Shared cups of tea united us and my bones often ache to drink from that cup once again. Ultimately, I suppose elf tea represents a road sign along this path of memories—a point of reference guiding me through a maze. But memories, like elf tea, are something that cannot be created alone. They are meant to be shared. To understand the person I am today, these memories cannot stay well preserved beneath the stairs.
“Some memories I kept, others left, others I must have let go to protect.”
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mewants it
ReplyDeletei miss you.
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