Almost two years ago, before I understood, Nick and I had a conversation about clothing. I was getting rid of things, and as I went through my dresser drawers, I said, “Sometimes, a shirt is just a shirt.”
“No,” he said. “A shirt is not just a shirt.”
I have come back to that moment many times since then. I understand now, and I don’t know if a shirt will ever be just a shirt to me again. I have a whole new wardrobe now. The old shirts are gone. Good riddance.
Almost everything else is gone too. House. Furniture. Dishes. Paintings. Photos. Friends.
Every once in a while, I will stumble upon something old. It might be a book or a tax bill. It doesn’t matter. There are no fond memories. Memories of things that were pleasant in their actual moment of occurrence become the stuff of nightmares.
And, songs? Songs are still the worst. But, it’s getting better. I can listen to jazz now without feeling like I need to run out the door. Classic rock? Hair bands? Those seem to be okay also.
But, THE songs? The ones from the bad times? I wonder if I will ever be able to hear them without wanting to scream. My gut says no.
Nick and I are listening to Greek music right now. Traditional Cypriot songs. There are no memories. There are only thoughts of wine and warm beaches while we wait for tomorrow’s snow.
I’ll take snow over memories. Living in the past never helped anyone.