Souvenir (Workshop)

A stack of old papers lies under my bed in a plastic box atop other plastic boxes nearly indistinguishable from the others save for the others are empty and this one contains a stack of old papers. Old letters, old poems, old cards, old notes from old friends.

Souvenirs from locations twice removed.

Sometimes I will read them over and try to remember who they were addressed to as if I saved everything around the one thing I truly wanted to hold onto. Most letters are postmarked with addresses that have become foreign with age. They still stay in the box for that reason; that maybe if I could sift through enough of the pages I could remember where they all came from.

 

There used to be a lot more, but some letters were too heavy to carry from Monroe to Boston to Monroe to Buffalo. Others simply got lost in the shuffle of moving so many times.

The souvenirs left are either inconsequential or so arbitrary and detached from their time that their meaning has been lost. There used to be a lot more, but some letters were too heavy to carry from Monroe to Boston to Monroe to Buffalo. Others simply got lost along the way.

But the souvenirs, the ones in the stack of old papers lying under my bed in their plastic box atop the other plastic boxes nearly indistinguishable from the others save for the others are empty and this one contains a stack of old papers. You know, those? These are souvenirs whose emotional weight does not even register on the scale. So why do they hurt so much when I look at them?

 

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