What remains?
1 Aug
For years I’ve been using my mother’s suburban house, as many people do, as a jumping-off point for travel endeavors. Returning home isn’t easy. Sure, there are free hot showers, people speaking the same language as me (although it often doesn’t feel like that), friends to laugh with, and family to squeeze and smooch. But, I’m also bombarded by a plethora of memories.
Attempts to be ‘in the moment’ dissolve into time travel as I sift through the remains of my youth. I uncover bits of love letters, aged photos, broken gifts, and tatty jewelry that were hidden from sight under the furthermost corner of my bed. My face reflects associated emotions with raised eyebrows, a half grin, a quiet chuckle, a quivering chin. A sudden case of the ‘shoulda-coulda-wouldas’ looms darkly overhead. I read the letters, swoon over the photos, finger the gifts and jewelry as if they’ve just been resurrected from an ancient forgotten treasure chest. Old emotions run their course, steadily lapping in and out of my consciousness. As my mind clouds, I lose the task at hand (clean out old shit) and begin fantasizing about how my life could have been different.
…If I stayed in that relationship I’d have kids by now, and probably a nice house, dogs, in-laws over for Sunday dinner. I could have taken that job. I’d be enjoying health insurance, a retirement, a 401k! I should have just looked harder, tried this, or that… I would have established myself. I would have made something of myself. I would have a ‘real life’…
This is dangerous territory, bordering on depression and regret. Scenarios present themselves, current situations appear shallow and unsatisfying, and suddenly, nothing I’ve done can live up to my own mind’s adolescent fantasies.
The disappointment strikes in a panic; I start to re-evaluate life. Gut-clenched I rush off to the computer, put the words together, make sentences, and make sense of these emotions. The full moon peeks out from behind a cloud. It dares not blink. Tides are high. The typed letters flow like water, like breath, rolling a steady cadence into linear existence and back again.
I write because I’m so alone I crave an imaginary audience to share this scary space with. I feel alone because I separate myself from my friends and family to experience more of the world. I travel because keeping up pace here feels like running on a hamster wheel, sometimes monotonous, and over-crowded with familiarity. I compulsively leave this place because travel makes my guts smile, makes my smiles sing, makes my songs impassioned, makes my passion ignite. I want experiences that are bright, fresh, untainted, new, clean, beautiful. I’m full of emotion because this room, in this house, doesn’t feel any of those words. Got to let go.
The stirred up dust settles on two full garbage bags and leaning stacks of things to donate. Graveyards of memories. A final glance lingers. My mind asks questions. Will I regret it? Will I want to go back to those memories, mourn again what was lost, pry myself from presence to float in fantasy of what can never manifest? Maybe. But it’s too late, now. The stuff is gone, the clouds are lifting, and the room feels as spacious as a clear night sky.
I won’t catch my bus if I’m stuck crying beside memory tombstones, and I couldn’t really breathe with all that emotional baggage weighing me down. This torturous act of clearing leaves me to experience what remains.
What remains? The space to stretch, time to enjoy, and freedom to breathe.
MRumianowski
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