I have, in my house, a place of memories. It is, in a sense, a vault, made so by my reluctance to break its sanctity. It is a place where I store the mementoes and memories and trinkets of happy times, and bad times, where that which connected me most strongly to another resides.
It is a place of too few successes and too many failures. It carries with it pain and some joy, it carries the physical manifestations of lives lived, their emotional and spiritual resonance intact.
And yet again I add to it. Yet again that sad ritual of laying to rest something that meant much takes place, a slow and awkward reduction of my life from the meaningful to the functional.
I am tired of doing this, tired of not getting the things that mean everything right. I am tired of feeling bereft and lost and empty. I am tired of this dismantling of hope, of dreams and plans and maybes and what-ifs. I am tired of losing that which matters most time and time again.
I have a place of memories in my house, the tangible twin to the place in my heart. And I honestly do not know if I can keep going on there, awakening with each visit not just the new but the old. I just do not know if I can do it any more.