Wednesday, March 14, 2007

Box of Pain

I keep a big box of pain in my bedroom. I am not exactly sure why, but I do. Inside the box there are about 250 rolls of film from my life with her. I decided that I needed to have the box. She kept it in her closet in Ohio, but as I was driving the kids back there this summer, I decided that I wanted the box in order to ‘sort and split up’ its contents. Realistically, my desire to possess the box was some sort of grasp for a piece of her and of our life together. Unrealistically, it was going to make everything better or at least let me begin to move on. Of course, I was very wrong. Most of the three of you who read this blog, know me, or at least understand the extent of my ‘knuckleheadism’, but this one is even a head scratcher for me. Every few weeks I awake determined to conquer the box. It certainly does not look too imposing from the outside; high grade corrugated cardboard, some sort of picture of a high-end electronic piece of stereo equipment, Chinese writing, and packing tape. The inside is an entirely different story. Each little package contains a complete roller coaster of emotions. Even the ‘bong art’ from my college days elicits some sort of nostalgic yearn for better times. There are friends long lost, places I barely remember, beautiful places I remember differently, and there is her. She permeates the box. Sometimes I think I might even smell a little of her from her hippie days, but more likely it is just an olfactory hallucination (I heard that those can happen…). I guess what strikes me most about the content of the box is its sheer beauty. There are many beautiful young people, and even more beautiful places. It makes me long for the American West. The Tetons, Southern Utah, New Mexico, Arizona, that abandoned railroad trestle in Felt, Idaho, Yosemite, San Francisco, Breckenridge, Fairplay, believe me I could go on. But more than anything it makes me long for her, the life we had together, the children I left behind. Maybe the next time I drive to Ohio, I will pick the thing up and throw it in the back of my wagon and give it all back to her. More than likely, I will keep it and continue to stare at it daily, and continue to hurt.


tbati said...

I know the sentiment. Feel it myself every day. My ex (isn't that a shitty term?) has been by the house in the last few days packing up her stuff. So hard, though I know the end result will be good for me.

She's moving her stuff this week, so my house will be my own, free from her. Yeah, right. She inhabits the floorboards, the walls. Her spirit grows every spring when the hostas and ferns burst forth from the garden beds. Every color on every wall was picked by her. My house. Right.

This'll all get better, won't it?

I love reading your stuff. Thanks for making it public.


townser said...


I keep waiting for that day when I wake up and feel like I can move on. I have been waiting so long that I am beginning to believe it will never happen. Other than sexually, I do not really have any desire to begin another relationship. Is that wrong? Probably, but it is what I am facing at the moment.