Past
Learning from Shoeboxes
So, here's a novel idea: I'm just going to take the past and put it in a neat little shoe box, maybe from Aldo or ADIDAS. I'll put every single folded memory and every single folded note that I've treasured into heaps and piles. Thoughts and memories aren’t arranged neatly like a library, no, they’re a mess of colour like melted ice cream. They lack meaning, or do I lack the proper understanding? I place the little box on a little shelf in my mind for now. I tell myself I’ll answer that question when I need to and I walk away. “If it’s not meant to be it’s not meant to be” I keep telling myself. Whether I believe it or not is another story.
I’d like to think I've learned from my mistakes. I remember the lessons, but can’t I just forget the past? I'll pull myself forward because I'm determined to achieve my goals and there's no time to linger on the past, and no time for a mental breakdown. I have other things to worry about, like schoolwork and band. Besides, my friends need me, who else could they lean on? Why complain when you can't change anything, and why change anything when you can't complain?
It‘s not like I don‘t know the box is there. It just sits there, haunting me, taunting me. The name on the box is written on a fresh white label and it clearly says “Summer ‘08”. It's next to the boxes labeled "Christmas '06" and "Spring Break '07”. One is a pink Candie’s Shoe Box and the other is an orange Nike Shoe box. The shoe boxes sit quietly in a row, and no one could possibly understand the impact they’ve had on me, and no one could possibly understand how loud the shy shoe boxes can scream.
Maybe one day, when I’m strong enough, I'll take the little shoe box labeled “Summer ‘08” off of the little shelf. I'll sit on my bed cross-legged and I'll blow the dust off the top. The label will no longer be a crisp white, but a fading yellow, its’ corners curling upward. I’ll run my fingers across the edge of the box and experience the feel of worn-down cardboard, smooth and wrinkled. Slowly I’ll raise the lid and a new smell of old paper will fill the room. Chaos will fly violently at me in an organized, natural way.
Seeing every single folded memory I've treasured will probably hurt the most. Not the bad memories, but the ones that made me smile and laugh--memories of love and friendship. Happy things that have already happened and already past, and I'll have to realize I have to put these away with the bad as well.
It’s the simple memories that will hurt, it‘s always the simple memories. It’s the innocence of that first kiss with him. It’s walking up the stairs to third period and him missing the first time because kisses and moving targets don‘t ever work out. It’s the second try and the sound of the late bell, me running into the class out of breath and not getting marked late because the teacher isn’t in the room yet. It’s receiving questioning looks from my friends in stride because nothing else matters. It’s being happy.
“Just move on,” a little, annoying, practical voice in the back of my mind will tell myself, “it was great while it lasted, but it meant nothing.” And of course I won’t listen to that voice because I’ve never been one to follow practical advice of any sort from anyone.
I’ll pick the memory and throw it against the wall, making a loud thump that satisfies me. It bursts and splatters like a balloon filled with a light pink paint. It’s reminiscent of splatter art.
On to the next thought, and each little thought will take me back into the past. The next memory I’ll unfold will bring me back to the last day of my Freshman year. I sat on the short brick wall and so did he. My mind was still fogged from falling asleep and he was holding my hand (or was his arm around me?). My skin absorbed the heat from the sun and the breeze danced along my arm making me shiver (or was it just the way he looked at me?). He looked me straight in the eye and I stared right back, seeing nothing but a blue oblivion and every single possibility of the future. He said three short words and I responded with four. Short, yes, but it had an immense part of my very self and everything I ever believed in, not even close to small. And I meant it.
“He didn’t though,” that little voice will taunt, “he just didn’t want to be alone, you know that right? You were just another little rebound, now stop being so overdramatic.”
“Just shut up,” I’ll respond, hurt, “I was stupid, I know. I‘m always overdramatic, leave me alone.”
I’ll decide to throw this memory balloon against the wall as well. It’ll splatters against the pink with a soft blue. A bit of the two paints flow together and make a pleasant periwinkle colour.
I’ll reach in the box and pull out a crinkled piece of paper that was shoved to the very bottom. I’ll unravel it and smooth it out against my bed. It’s the memory of going to downtown Greenville, and then to my best friend’s house. It’s having fun, kissing in the rain, and feeling like I’m missing something. It’s feeling like I’m not all there. It’s getting annoyed at my best friend’s girlfriend for some reason…
“No, no, move on!” I’ll shake my head and throw the memory against my makeshift canvas, adding a bright green.
Another note, another kiss, it felt like it should have been the first, my first. It was soft and sweet and lasted forever but not long enough. Romantic location means nothing and sitting outside of McDonald’s is sweeter than any other place I could think of. I poured my heart out then, and I mentally told him to keep it safe. Just like the line of that song by Pink, “I don’t want love to destroy me like it has my family.”
“Chanel, if you don’t stop being melodramatic, I swear…” That annoying voice in my head will say.
“I know, I know, I’m pathetic,” I’ll say exasperated, “I keep making excuses and crying about stuff I can’t help.”
“So move on, don’t keep hurting yourself by bringing up the past, don’t you understand yet?” The annoying voice won’t be so annoying anymore. It’ll actually start to sound sympathetic.
“I can’t live with someone who needs me to be there holding his hand, telling him what to do, how to be happy. How can I be happy if I have to do back flips for the other person to be satisfied?”
“I think your finally getting it, honey.” The voice will coo in delight of my epiphany.
“Why am I with someone that I can’t hold a conversation with? That can’t make me smile? Why would I rather be with my best friend than my boyfriend? Shouldn’t my boyfriend also be my best friend?” I’ll answer my questions with more questions, but I’ll finally understand.
“Maybe you should stop looking in all the wrong places. ‘Shouldn’t my boyfriend also be my best friend?’, I don’t think that’s a coincidence.” And with that, the little voice in my head will tip its’ hat and leave my head for the time being.
I’ll pick up the last balloon thought and through it with all my strength. Instead of adding to the colours of the painting, it’ll turn out to be water. My canvas is clean again.
I’ll take out a pen and a piece of paper, and I begin to write. Our last kiss. It was half-hearted and didn’t seem real. A promise to see each other later, and those three or four short words repeated. This time I didn’t mean it, either. I’ll pick up the sheet of paper, fold it carefully.
I’ll take my box and look inside. The piles will just be piles and the rows will just be rows and what had happened had already happened and there's nothing I can do about it. I’ll place the last note at the top, put the lid back on the little box, pick it up, and put it back on the little shelf in my mind.
I will be right, though. Simplicity does hurt, and the truth is like a band aid you just have to rip off in one fast motion--just let your eyes water and then move on.
I’ll consider what I just learned and I’ll pick up a pen and a piece of paper. I’ll write about watching the fireworks explode on July 4th, about band camp, and all those competitions. I’ll write about laying in the middle of the road and staying up all night on the phone, not even realizing the time. I’ll write about all the stupid little conversations and all the stupid little jokes. I’ll write about my best friend. Here’s the catch though, I’ll still be scared and unsure.
One day I’ll run across a You tube comment though. I never expected to read anything philosophical on these responses to videos, but that’ll change. The comment will read: “You're someone's saving grace... life is for living!” and it’ll make me stop and think. I’ll smile again.
“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven….” Finally some of what I’ve learned in the past will be falling into place, and I’ll follow advice I never thought I would take.
Eventually all of this will happen, but not for a while. I'm not strong enough and not enough time has passed for me to understand completely. My willpower is still weak and it’s still easier to try and forget. For now, the little shoe box will sit on the little shelf in my mind next to the pink and orange shoe boxes, overflowing with memories I choose to ignore. The past is the past--that is, until I'm ready to deal with it.
I’d like to think I've learned from my mistakes. I remember the lessons, but can’t I just forget the past? I'll pull myself forward because I'm determined to achieve my goals and there's no time to linger on the past, and no time for a mental breakdown. I have other things to worry about, like schoolwork and band. Besides, my friends need me, who else could they lean on? Why complain when you can't change anything, and why change anything when you can't complain?
It‘s not like I don‘t know the box is there. It just sits there, haunting me, taunting me. The name on the box is written on a fresh white label and it clearly says “Summer ‘08”. It's next to the boxes labeled "Christmas '06" and "Spring Break '07”. One is a pink Candie’s Shoe Box and the other is an orange Nike Shoe box. The shoe boxes sit quietly in a row, and no one could possibly understand the impact they’ve had on me, and no one could possibly understand how loud the shy shoe boxes can scream.
Maybe one day, when I’m strong enough, I'll take the little shoe box labeled “Summer ‘08” off of the little shelf. I'll sit on my bed cross-legged and I'll blow the dust off the top. The label will no longer be a crisp white, but a fading yellow, its’ corners curling upward. I’ll run my fingers across the edge of the box and experience the feel of worn-down cardboard, smooth and wrinkled. Slowly I’ll raise the lid and a new smell of old paper will fill the room. Chaos will fly violently at me in an organized, natural way.
Seeing every single folded memory I've treasured will probably hurt the most. Not the bad memories, but the ones that made me smile and laugh--memories of love and friendship. Happy things that have already happened and already past, and I'll have to realize I have to put these away with the bad as well.
It’s the simple memories that will hurt, it‘s always the simple memories. It’s the innocence of that first kiss with him. It’s walking up the stairs to third period and him missing the first time because kisses and moving targets don‘t ever work out. It’s the second try and the sound of the late bell, me running into the class out of breath and not getting marked late because the teacher isn’t in the room yet. It’s receiving questioning looks from my friends in stride because nothing else matters. It’s being happy.
“Just move on,” a little, annoying, practical voice in the back of my mind will tell myself, “it was great while it lasted, but it meant nothing.” And of course I won’t listen to that voice because I’ve never been one to follow practical advice of any sort from anyone.
I’ll pick the memory and throw it against the wall, making a loud thump that satisfies me. It bursts and splatters like a balloon filled with a light pink paint. It’s reminiscent of splatter art.
On to the next thought, and each little thought will take me back into the past. The next memory I’ll unfold will bring me back to the last day of my Freshman year. I sat on the short brick wall and so did he. My mind was still fogged from falling asleep and he was holding my hand (or was his arm around me?). My skin absorbed the heat from the sun and the breeze danced along my arm making me shiver (or was it just the way he looked at me?). He looked me straight in the eye and I stared right back, seeing nothing but a blue oblivion and every single possibility of the future. He said three short words and I responded with four. Short, yes, but it had an immense part of my very self and everything I ever believed in, not even close to small. And I meant it.
“He didn’t though,” that little voice will taunt, “he just didn’t want to be alone, you know that right? You were just another little rebound, now stop being so overdramatic.”
“Just shut up,” I’ll respond, hurt, “I was stupid, I know. I‘m always overdramatic, leave me alone.”
I’ll decide to throw this memory balloon against the wall as well. It’ll splatters against the pink with a soft blue. A bit of the two paints flow together and make a pleasant periwinkle colour.
I’ll reach in the box and pull out a crinkled piece of paper that was shoved to the very bottom. I’ll unravel it and smooth it out against my bed. It’s the memory of going to downtown Greenville, and then to my best friend’s house. It’s having fun, kissing in the rain, and feeling like I’m missing something. It’s feeling like I’m not all there. It’s getting annoyed at my best friend’s girlfriend for some reason…
“No, no, move on!” I’ll shake my head and throw the memory against my makeshift canvas, adding a bright green.
Another note, another kiss, it felt like it should have been the first, my first. It was soft and sweet and lasted forever but not long enough. Romantic location means nothing and sitting outside of McDonald’s is sweeter than any other place I could think of. I poured my heart out then, and I mentally told him to keep it safe. Just like the line of that song by Pink, “I don’t want love to destroy me like it has my family.”
“Chanel, if you don’t stop being melodramatic, I swear…” That annoying voice in my head will say.
“I know, I know, I’m pathetic,” I’ll say exasperated, “I keep making excuses and crying about stuff I can’t help.”
“So move on, don’t keep hurting yourself by bringing up the past, don’t you understand yet?” The annoying voice won’t be so annoying anymore. It’ll actually start to sound sympathetic.
“I can’t live with someone who needs me to be there holding his hand, telling him what to do, how to be happy. How can I be happy if I have to do back flips for the other person to be satisfied?”
“I think your finally getting it, honey.” The voice will coo in delight of my epiphany.
“Why am I with someone that I can’t hold a conversation with? That can’t make me smile? Why would I rather be with my best friend than my boyfriend? Shouldn’t my boyfriend also be my best friend?” I’ll answer my questions with more questions, but I’ll finally understand.
“Maybe you should stop looking in all the wrong places. ‘Shouldn’t my boyfriend also be my best friend?’, I don’t think that’s a coincidence.” And with that, the little voice in my head will tip its’ hat and leave my head for the time being.
I’ll pick up the last balloon thought and through it with all my strength. Instead of adding to the colours of the painting, it’ll turn out to be water. My canvas is clean again.
I’ll take out a pen and a piece of paper, and I begin to write. Our last kiss. It was half-hearted and didn’t seem real. A promise to see each other later, and those three or four short words repeated. This time I didn’t mean it, either. I’ll pick up the sheet of paper, fold it carefully.
I’ll take my box and look inside. The piles will just be piles and the rows will just be rows and what had happened had already happened and there's nothing I can do about it. I’ll place the last note at the top, put the lid back on the little box, pick it up, and put it back on the little shelf in my mind.
I will be right, though. Simplicity does hurt, and the truth is like a band aid you just have to rip off in one fast motion--just let your eyes water and then move on.
I’ll consider what I just learned and I’ll pick up a pen and a piece of paper. I’ll write about watching the fireworks explode on July 4th, about band camp, and all those competitions. I’ll write about laying in the middle of the road and staying up all night on the phone, not even realizing the time. I’ll write about all the stupid little conversations and all the stupid little jokes. I’ll write about my best friend. Here’s the catch though, I’ll still be scared and unsure.
One day I’ll run across a You tube comment though. I never expected to read anything philosophical on these responses to videos, but that’ll change. The comment will read: “You're someone's saving grace... life is for living!” and it’ll make me stop and think. I’ll smile again.
“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven….” Finally some of what I’ve learned in the past will be falling into place, and I’ll follow advice I never thought I would take.
Eventually all of this will happen, but not for a while. I'm not strong enough and not enough time has passed for me to understand completely. My willpower is still weak and it’s still easier to try and forget. For now, the little shoe box will sit on the little shelf in my mind next to the pink and orange shoe boxes, overflowing with memories I choose to ignore. The past is the past--that is, until I'm ready to deal with it.