â€œTwo selves in the garage is all you get.â€ Is what my mom said to me when I moved out of the house, leaving some things behind. Not just some things but boxes that contain memories through notes, yearbooks, ticket subs, and all sorts of mixture of things. I firmly believe such things stay at your parentâ€™s house, itâ€™s just how it is. You go back home to reminisce about years past, not to a storage place in your current home. Now, years later I have moved back home filling to the brim of those two selves things I have collected as an apartment dweller. Things that donâ€™t fit have found home in our make shift rafters on the garage ceiling. Is it bad I take some delight in the fact I have outgrown my two selves and gotten away with it?
A long over due job of actually going through those boxes is in order. My parents cleaned out the garage (which I donâ€™t think it entails them going through the garage and seeing what is really needed. I think itâ€™s more of a get the dirt and dust out cleaning) while I was in Alabama. The threat of cleaning my two selves was said. Fearing for my precious things (half of I couldnâ€™t recall I had put there years ago) I promised I would make time when I came back to go through them. Ready with my iPod, that time was this evening after work.
I pulled everything off the selves, opening a box full of beanie babies. I shut it right when I unveiled the context. Yes, I used to collect them when that was the thing to do. Iâ€™ll even own up to my mom, grandma and myself scouting out McDonaldâ€™s for the mini ones. It was that bad. I no longer have those minisâ€™s (no idea where they went to actually) but I do have ones that I just canâ€™t part with. In my mind, they were a child thing which I could not bring with me to my adult apartment. But even now, after years of not even thinking of them, I canâ€™t part with them. Well, not with all of them, some hold special memories for me, so itâ€™s hard to let go.
Another box I found is one that holds travel books, my yearbooks and old school notebooks. I came across some papers I have saved (really I am not a pack rat) that I sat on the garage floor and read. One I wrote for an English class I had my freshmen year of college. The assignment was to write about someone close to you with certain guild lines within that. I close to write about my closest friend at the time to me. I reread this paper which reminds me of things I had forgotten about this person. I quoted a letter she had written to me with words that were heartfelt and meaningful. Well, back then at least, since that friendship is currently non-existent. I sat there fighting every urge to fold it up and mail it to her as a reminder of what we once were. But then I wondered why I do that, for the benefit of ether one of us? Maybe all this time I felt such pain for this friendship is because itâ€™s now I planned it to be.
Strange things we forget we have, things and feelings. Ive said about this relationship: I’m done; my heart is closed to the idea. Reading those words she wrote as my friend four years ago, could they possibly still be good? Or am I really someday, somehow going to have to swallow the tears and truly believe that every common ground has fallen down as if it was never there. As for now, I neatly put away these thoughts. I fold them into a box and put them on a shelve. My heart doesnâ€™t know what to do with these lost forgotten things, so they rest until it does.