dirty laundry
Just as I study hard as to not waste Pepsi caffeine, so I try to be sentimental as to not waste a perfectly good glass of wine. I hate correct grammar--I mean, honestly, it's really awkward.So as I'm sitting here digging my thumbnail into the space between my teeth, I'm wondering why I went through the old books I lent him, looking for a love note or a scribble. I've lent out so many books, and I've written more than a few letters. I don't know if anyone's kept any (well, I think I know where a few might be lying around), but are they like mine--facedown, hidden under a napkin or a book, just waiting to be thrown out by a significant other doing "spring cleaning"?
But really, is cleaning out your lover's dirty laundry neurotic? And is keeping it a sign of sentimentality we wish to deny? I've thrown out so much stuff, and I've cleared out so much of his; still, I know I'll come across an old trinket stuffed in a drawer corner. And I'll pick it up, smile a little, try to remember how young and foolish I had once been. Then this sudden jerk forces the memories away, and I freeze up like a Weight Watcher's member caught with a donut. At that moment, I really don't know what to do. Do I throw it away and feel guilty for having shared a happy moment with someone else? Or do I stay and hope he doesn't mistaken that I still have leftover feelings?
In Eternal Sunshine, the program required that the patients throw out all belongings that had anything to do with their significant others. I don't dispute the logic in their method; after all, certain objects do invoke certain emotions that go beyond our own cognitive appraisal levels. Still, the question remains: how much can we keep? And which objects are "keep-able"? Do I need to physically lay out items A, B, and C on the table and let him choose which ones are acceptable?
I think there's always going to be a little green elf with a broom that just wants to clean out more and more of his things until nothing can prove someone was there before me. We don't always say what we feel, even if we convince ourselves we're a.)different from other couples, b.)grown-up, c.)talently communicative, there's always something more the other person can do that we keep to ourselves.
So I tried again, flipping through the books I lent him, but still no note. I can remember the cards he wrote me, but I can't remember where I put them. How strange. I can remember the exact location of the other sparse trinkets, but I can't remember where a single card is.
This is how I know this time it's for real. There's no sense in keeping something safe if you believe you will have the same thing, again and again, till your closets burst with love notes and cards and other memorabilia. His notes are easily lost because there are too many to keep track of, and even if I lost one, it can always be replaced. I held onto those other items because I know I've reached the end in every one of those paths, and I also have no desire to go back and renew what was already lost. But his notes, beautiful as they are, will never be more than strings of ink on paper. I would rather he say them to me in a whisper, as he always manages to do and remember. And nothing, absolutely nothing, can ever compare.
posted by Tiffany @ 12:19 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home