Monthly Archives: July 2021

A Letter That I can’t Send

To when or whenever you read this letter,

I was organizing my closet a few days ago. Behind the dresser that I had shoved into the closet to make more space in my bedroom I found two photographs. One was was a silhouette painting of an Eskimo that belonged to my grandmother. When I saw it, I wanted to cry. It was the last thing that belonged to my grandmother that I owned. Everything else was lost when I moved from Portland to Charleston. I had moved so hastily and rashly that I hadn’t been able to come to my senses on what to do with things that belonged to me that I couldn’t immediately fit into a suit case. They were just things, I told myself at the time. Memories are so much more valuable and will always be, stuff will always just be… stuff. But I cried all the same when I realized I left behind things that can never be replaced and can never get back. Like an ornament of my first Christmas as a baby sitting on Santa’s lap. So even though they were still things, I still found myself crying into my pillow weeks after I had moved.

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