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Jun '09

Diary of a Divorcee Part II

Since the move to The Flat, and especially since the lay off, I have spent numerous hours going though boxes and paring things down to “my” stuff. I have never been a pack rat and since I have moved like a gypsy my entire life opportunities to cull the stuff come every few years, it seems. My biggest weaknesses are letters, cards, notes, birth and death announcements and photographs. I am embarrassed to admit, it was only six months ago that I tossed 99% of the wedding photographs from marriage number two from 1986. (We divorced in 1989.)  No need for this baggage anymore. Sure, a few of them–geez, I look so young, and my Dad looks so alive and healthy, even though he wasn’t. I will not ever forget that marriage or the day of the wedding—thunder, lightening, rain and flooding—so I do not need all these photographs, period. They’re gone.

Another one of my weaknesses, which formed during my courtship with husband number three, was Memory boxes. It really started causally enough with these beautiful boxes that came my way and were the perfect size to hold mementos of special occasions. Well . . . . . these boxes are staring at me right now, a little road weary, not so new looking anymore, and I keep finding other things to occupy my afternoon. I am not sure what I am afraid I will find in these beautiful floral boxes, four in all, but I am resisting to the point that I am considering cleaning the bathroom.Memory Boxes 1993-2008. Photo by Carol Kiphart 2009
They are just memories. Fifteen years of memories, to be exact. I do not need boxes full of ticket stubs, Playbills, wedding invitations, a menu from Thanksgiving dinner twelve years ago, or postcards of past travels to remember my last marriage. So I sit here and contemplate the worst that can come from me opening the first box. I may get a little melancholy. I may cry, hell, I may laugh. All of this is okay. If I can survive the death of husband number one and give birth to his child one month later without benefit of his coaching, I should be able to survive these four little boxes. Shouldn’t I?

Perhaps I am afraid of his power over me again, perhaps it will be a reminder that maybe I did not try hard enough to save the marriage, but perhaps it will be cathartic. More baggage out makes room for new mementos, new Playbills to collect, and four empty boxes to fill, or, like many of my recent purges, the boxes will find their way to the recycling bin.  I know when it is all said and done, I will feel lighter. A little less burdened by my past mistakes. If I make lunch now, I can put this off for at least another hour, and it’s the weekend. Maybe I will have a short glass of wine with my lunch. 🙂

To be continued . . . . . . . . .

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