So, this is a continuation of the box story. One thing sort of led to the next. After I found out Fleegle still loves me (phew) I got to thinking about the other dark corners of my life. Where else was the past quietly festering? In a word, albums. Photo albums. I had pages and pages and pages of old boyfriends, old lives, old best-forgotten hauntings. If I could throw out an entire box of a period of my life why stop there?
I started with 1995. The year I met Mr. Big Forehead. Any picture that didn’t include Ruby Tuesday or someone else of equal importance was fair game. Mr. BF was on every single freaking page. Who did he think he was? A model? I must have thought so. I was disgusted by how many different poses of the same man I seemed to own. Here’s BF leaning against a tree. In this one he’s eating something, ice cream I think. It’s black and white, hard to tell. Here he is watching TV. Playing golf. Another of him playing in the surf. Here he holds a pen. A pen! Amazing! Here’s another picture of him playing golf. Go figure. Unwrapping a gift. Here he stands with his midget brother. Now he’s in his underwear. Sleeping. What was I thinking? Obviously I fell victim to idolizing a false god. Pathetic.
The pictures came out of the album easily (mentally and physically). The album had long yellowed and my mind had lost its magnetic grip. It was exhilarating to peel them out one by one; rip them to shreds. Just throwing them away unharmed didn’t have the same effect. Didn’t have that same satisfying sound of destruction.
I moved backward to album 1992. Moving back in time I faltered. Mr. Meow wasn’t so easily destroyed. His memory lingered with the loss of my father. It was impossible to untangle the two. I left him alone. For now. But, speaking of my father…I glanced at the album my mother made for me after his death. Pictures of dad in a sailor suit when he was two. Riding a pony with his sister when he was five. Learning to load a gun as a teenager with his big brother. I loved this album and was dismayed to notice the leather binding coming apart. Reaching high I tried to pull the album down for a closer inspection. But I misjudged the weakness of the spine. It tore from my hands and suddenly the album fell beyond my grasp onto the floor with a thud. Looking down I noticed it landed open on a page I didn’t remember.
I found a memory I thought I lost. A picture more cherished than a heart could contain. Home again. Things happen for a reason…all in due time.