The Weight of Words

The box of memories, like hope, dutifully followed her over the decades from dwelling to dwelling:
     From I street to Park street;
     From Park street to Fairview;
     From Fairview to Nebraska street;
     From Nebraska street to Hal Muldrow Drive.

The box grew heavier year by year, memories blurred, and she wondered how words and sentences of thoughts, ideas, dreams, nightmares, fears, truths and lies could become so heavy to carry.

"The butterfly counts not the months but the
 moments and has time enough. " Tagore 

(note found in journals) 

Once when the box filled, she thoughtfully found a bigger heavier box for the words and sentences of happiness, disappointments, heartaches, joys, frustrations, love, and pure delight in life.  The sturdy box continued to follow her, like a shadow needing a home, as it traveled:
     From Hal Muldrow Drive to Canterbury;
     From Canterbury to Baltic Avenue;
     From Baltic Avenue to Quivira Drive.

Stashed in a far corner of closet the box seemed all but forgotten. Her words continued to tell stories from her heart, ask questions, retell moments with an author's chosen words, decode feelings, describe travels and dreams. Seeking help and understanding from the words she wrote, she drew, she cut and pasted uplifting quotes, pictures and art work that told her stories. 

"The flower looks up high to see the light

and never looks down to see it's shadow." 

(note in her journals) 

One last time that brown corrugated box lined with memories and filled with journals traveled from Quivira Drive to Guilford, where it sat on a shelf never quite out of sight. The brown box sat like an tree stump on the shelves of the curio closet among the puppets, artwork, books, and pictures. Once she thought to decorate the box creating a collage of her life, her family, friends, and travels. That began the argument in her head, why decorate it, why keep it?

Spring came along with a terrifying virus that forced her to think deeply about life and death. The box was a burden she no longer needed. One day while carefully balanced on the ladder, she tilted the box toward the floor, and let years of journals tumble down, then she slowly removed the box from the shelf. In her head she heard the joyous lyrics, "Let it go, let it go, can't hold it back anymore..."

Now it was the corrugated elephant in the room, she could no longer hide it nor avoid it. 

The guidelines were created.
  No rereading. 
  No reliving. 
  Glance only. 
  Acknowledge.
  Tear and trash. 

She cheated a few times. Took notes from travels they had taken, scribbled a few dates and memorable moments that made her laugh again and whispered "Yes."

With each trip to the trash bin she felt her shoulders ease until at last fifty years of journals were gone. She stood alone in the back yard smiling as the birds chirped at the feeders, the doves cooed and the Cardinals squabbled. Her thoughts spread in a smile across her face. 

"Our lives become rich

without baggage from the past."

(note found in her journals)

*Dedicated to my sister Jonya, who said about her journals, "I do not need to read them. I have already lived that life!"

Other posts by Literally Letty with similar themes:

The Address Book

And Her Monkey Named, Woo.