I only just got home from my Twenties and I’m trying to sort out the contents of my bags into three piles; one for laundry, one for souvenirs and for gifts. There are packets of postcards everywhere, strings of gaudy plastic beads slither into cracks in the furniture and I have brought back too many pairs of stockings for the climate here. Perhaps I should consider the parallels between my frequently indulged impulse to buy anything I like in every colour available and the hedonistic whirl of the decade only just finished?
With the washing machine going and the pasta boiling I sit cross legged on the floor sorting the piles of items to keep and things to give away. Some are handled quickly lest the resentments of their time rise from the depths with their touch, some are held for a time to enjoy the pleasure of associations and memories triggered by their weight in my hands. The most important objects tug a corner of my mouth up in a smile while I tap buttons to find the song that completes the story, or search for letters, diaries, essays and notepads that record the story.
Every piece lights up a part of my body with knowledge; stretching my fingers with the urge to write, tickling my heart with the desire to see someone again, slowing the blood for a moment remembering those who can no longer laugh with me. And the mind always tingles with the caress of the past, no matter the associations.