I’ve had a box triple-masking-taped shut and hidden away in the back of my closet for almost a year now. I lugged it over to the big city with me in my big clattering UHaul and stuck it far away in the back of my shoebox of an apartment. And though I could not see it, there was always a nagging itch in the back of my mind, reminding me that it was there. It held nearly 4 years of my life.
I’ve always known that I should throw it away. But in the days following the end, every part of me just hurt so much, I could hardly look at it.
But today I dug that box out and cut off the layers of black masking tape with a serrated knife, peeled the tape off, and opened the box up anew. Dried rose petals settled on the floor as I went through each of the trinkets. I gave myself a couple moments to remember the memories associated with each item: season tickets to the Boston Ballet, where D had fallen asleep on my shoulder every time; a business card from Louise’s Trattoria from our first date; a brochure from the Children’s Museum from the early months, when just being together was electrifying, a jar of maple syrup … jewelry boxes … I threw them all away. Funny things is, I couldn’t get myself to throw away those little scraps of paper … those quick scribbles and letters from when he had stayed up all night to do my laundry and restock the refrigerator during recruiting season or the darn flipbook spelling out “i love you” on the backs of coop business cards. Whether those words written in his jaunty little handwriting had truly been supported by emotions at that time, only he will ever know. But it had all felt real then. And the memories of a time when we had meant so much to each other … those were memories I just couldn’t throw away.
And as I stood there, tossing each item into the waste bin one-by-one, there was no sadness. No regret. I only felt thankfulness. Irrespective of how things ended, D and I had enjoyed a romance most people only get to dream about. And we had shaped each other and supported each other through one of the most formative periods of our lives. We had celebrated our small triumphs together, running out into Harvard Square at 2AM, lying in the middle of a 4-way intersection (just like in The Notebook, because I asked him to), and he had cried on my shoulder and I on his when things just got a little too tough. For all our memories and experiences, both good and bad, I will always be thankful.
And now all that remains is hope. Somewhere along the way, I had forgotten that I am someone who had once been deeply loved … that I still am someone who deserves to be loved that much. And I had forgotten that I could love someone that much.
But there once had been a time when that was the case. And there will be a time when that will be the case again.