A friend is cleaning out closets this summer. She is hauling up boxes stuffed with files, and outdated clothes, half burned candles and rumpled novels. It is not easy. But she is determined to clear away the rubbish. She wants to make room for more beautiful things.
It is a peculiarity of the human condition to hang onto items that are no longer useful. I doubt that animals are tempted. I once heard a comedian talk about the tendency to hoard. The audience laughed about Tupperware containers with no lids, locks with no combinations, and shrunk sweaters. He held a contest, seeking the most obtuse item. In the running were a girdle for a goat and a lamp made out of a beloved horse's femur.
Last night I was chatting with a buddy about a mutual acquaintance whom I have not spoken with for twenty five years. That friendship ended abruptly with a misunderstanding that I still don't understand. As we talked I dragged out old boxes of rumpled conversations, moldy responses to poorly chosen words. The last straw to the falling out was a letter written in anger. I can still see it in my head, even though John ceremoniously burned it.
Why am I hanging on to it? What purpose does it serve? Every unlovely memory that I cling to leaves less room for a lovely one.
The other day I was rehashing a dialogue with John that did not go well. It occurred thirteen years ago. Blinded by my righteous frenzy (I was right by the way) I did not notice that he was chopping lettuce for a salad. He brought it to me, sprinkled with shredded carrots and raisins. Just the way I like it.
I tossed the useless recollection in a dustbin with the unopenable locks, and looked into the face of the man who shows up every day.
