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I recently came across a shoebox of old things that I keep on the top shelf of a bookcase in my room, a cardboard sarcophagus stuffed with faxes and trinkets and letters, each item a reminder that we always carry the rubble of who we once were inside of ourselves. I do my best to avoid the contents of this thing, knowing as I do how unpleasant it can be to watch the past come back, roiling and rapid and uncontrollable…I guess none of us like to be reminded of what we’ve tried our hardest to forget. A few years ago, I felt a surge of bravery and looked inside, sifting through the detritus of my life like a prospector until I came across a decades-old love letter I’d written to someone once. The envelope had been stamped and delivered, but I could tell immediately that it had never been opened— it seemed a brutal metonym for a relationship that was probably always doomed to fail. I thought briefly about bringing this letter into a class I was teaching and allowing the students to open...More
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I recently came across a shoebox of old things that I keep on the top shelf of a bookcase in my room, a cardboard sarcophagus stuffed with faxes and trinkets and letters, each item a reminder that we always carry the rubble of who we once were inside of ourselves. I do my best to avoid the contents of this thing, knowing as I do how unpleasant it can be to watch the past come back, roiling and rapid and uncontrollable…I guess none of us like to be reminded of what we’ve tried our hardest to forget. A few years ago, I felt a surge of bravery and looked inside, sifting through the detritus of my life like a prospector until I came across a decades-old love letter I’d written to someone once. The envelope had been stamped and delivered, but I could tell immediately that it had never been opened— it seemed a brutal metonym for a relationship that was probably always doomed to fail. I thought briefly about bringing this letter into a class I was teaching and allowing the students to open...More