“You taught me so much about you. Taught me so much about us. But I learned nothing.” ~ Fink (great way to explain a broken-up relationship)
I sit in my “office” cum guest room in my three room apartment, filing papers littered around me, my divorce paperwork–a thick pile–found directly on top of my marriage certificate. They came so close to each other, they were literally on top of each other on the “important paperwork” pile. I don’t know why I’m writing about this but somehow I feel like I must.
Every few years, I stop, take a step back, and look at myself. My life. And what I’ve collected around me.
I have little memories of important relationships. The larger ones of course filling more space. I still have a closet of things she left behind–a box from an antique store she fell in love with, six photo albums of wedding pictures, sentimental sticks and pictures and a handful of renditions of Hekate, with whom she most recently spoke.
She would talk to guides, ghosts, spirits. I have cleaned her out of every room but that. Because that room was never mine. Still isn’t.
I run my tongue along my teeth. Crying buddhas beside me, all curled up and circular, and I fought to keep them. An abalone shell with half-burned frankincense. A mussel shell with half-burned frankincense. Blue stone coasters. CDS about to topple over, books without a rightful place. Don Quixote woodman, watching. My bike rack against the wall. I sold my bike to make us work. Old truths now. They don’t hurt at all. They just are. I don’t think of you, Cygnus, unless tonight.
I would have Wren say, “I suffered you!” And she will, book three.
Cascading lights adorn the wall of my computer. My computer adorns an antique desk I got as a gift from her parents. I call you up, memories, I call you up to put you away.
Colorado gave me a bottle for my birthday, with a wish bracelet tactfully tied to an incense holder to burn the sticks upside down. She almost didn’t give it to me, almost, because she was afraid I’d make fun of it. I use it every weekend. I use it tonight. It would have been funny, maybe, from anyone off the street. Something she didn’t know of me: gifts matter more. More than what? Almost everything.
Koi fish incense holder–incense everything, around this computer–and gone are the character sketches and plot points I’d tack on the wall. All of it, I now write from memory, and all this shit keeps clouding me up.
My pewter cross, given to me from Sir Martithin, six years ago. I love you. Perhaps I don’t value what I get for myself. I don’t know the value of value, when I touch it first.
I know in the top left drawer of this desk I have my collection of calligraphy pens, one given to me by the first three relationships since high school.
But they aren’t theirs. Or ours. They are mine. Not so strange a thought, this. I sometimes think of my life as a series of forgotten people. Of forgotten selves in my path through them. And all this sacred refuse is what I see as “me.”
So where am I? Where do I walk? What paths are these?
I don’t miss them.
Okay, I miss Cygnus. But she’s like a cigarette I don’t want to smoke. She’s the memory of a bad habit.
Hope the weekend is amazing. I’m excited to write, and shop, and strengthen my new friendships.