Playing the Sentimental Fool, So You Don't Have To

Well, the final round of boxen arrived from back East. Finally. The contents prove that my mother and I were definitely dropping acid or doing meth or something that severely compromised our mental faculties.

Lots of stuff in this last batch that were meant for "deep storage." Yearbooks, assorted birthday card collections, photo albums from high school. Detritus from the inescapable clutches of nostalgia that have gripped me from a much too early age.

Among the sappy debris:

• A half finished photo album. Several pictures of the first boy I ever fell in love with. I looked at these photos and remembered feeling so much for him, but strangely feeling nothing at all for him today. I was so very in love with him, immensely and hopelessly. And to remember that feeling, without experiencing that feeling, or any feeling other than bemusement--so odd.
• Within the same album and a scant few pages later, a picture of another great love. And when I saw his face I smiled and my head immediately filled with Etta James singing "My Funny Valentine." I sang a verse outloud while I leafed through the pages interspersed with snapshots of him and the people that made up my life in those days. So yeah, that's right. I sang a love song to your old photo. Born in the wrong age, I suppose. It was a good feeling, a gentle tug on the heart, a whisper of a great and true affection that once was. 
• Three poems of love, all from girls I've known at different stages in my life. Yes, dear readers, it's true. The boyfriends never wrote me love letters--it was the girls who put pen to paper and told me I was beautiful and worthy of love. Thank you, you gorgeous girls: Elizabeth, Amy, and Hazel.
• My father doesn't write much, but every once in a while a note would get passed to me. One counseled me against grief and advised: "Hope does not equal agreement, only acceptance. Hope is acknowledgement without purchase." Thanks, Dad. I love you, too. 
• I had a roomie, and somehow we got in the habit of leaving messages to each other on yellow legal pads. Those pads got used for other things, including the beginning of my life long attraction analyses, silly poems, drawing with feet, and general goofiness in our apartment in the projects. He's out there in the world, being the good person he always has been. I find comfort in that. 
• Two stray photos that wouldn't seem connected to anyone else--a cat and a girl. Two things I love beyond all reason and rationale. Two loves that don't require logic or analysis. In some ways, I have forever lost both the cat and the girl. In some ways, I will never lose them, at least not how I feel about them. Cloyingly wrought with saptrified nostalgification, but true.
• An old birthday card, wishing that all my dreams would come true. Except for the ones about the circus peanut alligators. From the same person, a graph depicting the fun quotient versus money expenditures for a vacation plan. This person was my best friend for a long time. And then they weren't. But isn't that how it always goes?

I figure I've been pretty lucky in life. I've had some good times with good people, good times with not so good people, and bad times with people who cared standing by. I try to remember this, and be thankful. Like the man said, nothing gold can stay.