BK
It was March when I left the hospital after a tumour removal and started the 5-year wait to be declared cancer-free. I had divorced the year before that. I needed distraction while waiting, so I said yes to a position that required me to be away from home a lot. So much so that within two years, I became a resident in another country. I packed up a suitcase and a backpack, and that was all I brought over to start a new life. The rest stayed behind and remained frozen in time, as it was at the time of "evacuation".
Ten years later, I decided it was time to acknowledge the obvious: I actually lived in a new country. I travelled back to pack up the old flat which meant going through every item in an abandoned two-bedroom flat. It felt like cleaning out the place of a friend who passed away, who used to be a very close friend, but we somehow lost contact over the years. Everything was as she left it, but she was no longer there.
I knew her very well. She didn't really know me anymore; I hadn't had time to visit. As I worked through her belongings, I remembered her dreams, ambitions, hopes. I remembered her jobs, clothes, books, hobbies. I got emotional when I found the memories of milestones and big moments in her life that she saved for later, to show them to her own family. She worked and fought so hard for so many things. Every item had a story. But I had no room to store them anywhere. And anyway, she didn't leave family behind who would have been interested in her story, memories or things.
The shredder worked hard with the documents and photos, including the wedding album. The neighbour was happy to take the sewing machine and also asked for the plates. The books went to a free library. The charity shop gratefully accepted the clothes, the kitchen gadgets and the few plush toys she had once saved for a future as a mother. I kept a few journals, and a couple of mismatching mugs. She used to drink coffee from them while sitting on the windowsill. She loved that flat.
The versions of me who existed before I turned 38 didn't survive. Their memory got distilled down to the baggage allowance of an airline. No matter how desperately I loved them, or how desperately I wanted to keep them.
"How did you survive that?" "I didn't. I'm someone else now." After a thousand funerals…
