Something I had been avoiding with two moving houses was going through a largish wooden box filled with keepsakes, letters, photos and other paraphernalia. I haven’t opened this box for at least five years. I was planning to downsize this box.
Here is a heap of scarves, photos and a camp blanket from my days as a Cub and later a Scout. Being a Scout was a big part of my childhood, and going through all this elicited a strong feeling of nostalgia, and sadness that I have lost contact with all the people who I cared deeply for.
A pen from a funeral home I did some casual work for.
A stack of letters from an ex lover. I thought I was in love, and apparently that’s the thing that matters. Hindsight is a bitch, and as soon as I ended things I realized how fucked up the whole thing was. As I skim read a few of the letters, I feel a sharp pang of regret, quickly receding into a cold detachment. How can someone whose happiness and presence was so important to my well being now only licit an awareness of misplaced affection? I wish I could have felt so indifferent eighteen years ago. The only thing I keep is a book she gifted me, with an inscription from her on the inside cover.
A certificate for my climb of the Sydney Harbor Bridge.
Photos, yearbooks and notebooks from school leave me feeling cold. My school days were not that pleasant, half because of a caustic, Catholic environment, and half because I was a gloomy, awkward child with undiagnosed depression, anxiety and chronic low self-esteem.
A small pen-knife, gifted to me from my grandfather, who used to own it. I can remember cutting a finger while cleaning its wickedly sharp carbon steel blade.
Letters from two former friends, both women. One friendship ended without a whimper when I realized that the only reason I continued with her was my on/off infatuation with an idealized version of her. The other ended after the usual drifting apart when she got engaged to an ex-cult member who I couldn’t stand. and I decided I didn’t have the energy for either of them anymore.
A bag containing Thai Baht; coins and notes, and the VOIP calling card I used to call Mum during that trip. It was my first solo trip, and nothing was ever the same.
An order of service for the funeral of a school mate.
Adrian's Got The Moose 