Yesterday I found a note in my mailbox telling me that the mailman hadn't been able to squeeze a package underneath my door. I expected the conspiracy that has been smoldering for a while, mostly unperceived, to finally unfold on my doorstep. I wasn't ready for what actually happened.
This afternoon, I went to the post office and picked up a parcel from my ex-girlfriend. I walked the few steps back home to my apartment with a small but rather heavy cardboard box, certain that memories would spill out as soon as I opened it, overwhelming me and knocking me out.
And indeed, the box contained all the material things that still connect me to her. CDs I had liked, DVDs I had bought used at Hollywood, a pair of pajamas, two books, some gifts. There were no pictures. It was always me who took them, and I have them all.
The power of so many moments over five years, memories of good times and bad, hits me, and suddenly the abstractness of a year of growing distance becomes concrete. It's over – there's nothing left. I'm sitting on my sofa, putting the disks in their place, browsing through the books, not having much else to do but remember. Because remember I always will. I refuse to forget, though I pay, as Ricky Nelson is reminding me on my stereo, with a heart full of tears.
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