A Blank Slate

A box of memorabilia came back from my visit to the family home, filled with things about which I have no memory—none. It’s disconcerting to see pieces of one’s life and not recognize them, nor have any recollection of the time, the place, the people, or the event.

There are old schoolbooks, lots of neat childish printing, effusive praise from teachers in beautiful penmanship, old Valentines from a grammar school classroom long ago—but no memory to associate with them. There are cards I created for my daddy when I was a wee little one, but no memory of them. There are some embroidery pieces I began, but did not finish, and no memory to tell me the story. There are letters from college filled with what my life was during that time, but few memories to connect to the words. There are letters from my marriage, and letters chronicling my career, and striking out on my own, but I could be reading anyone’s life story, rather than my own.

There are 3 letters, two from the same person and a third letter from a second person, and I don’t know why I have them. I must have written to the two men, students at Yale, and received responses from them, but where would I have met these two men? How would I have known them? Why would I have been corresponding with them? I googled their names, but came up blank; there is someone inside of me that would like to know who they were/who they are and whether they can connect these dots for me.

There is also a letter from the guy to whom I was briefly engaged. I don’t wonder about him very much or very often. Some things are best left in the past.

There is a yearbook, not from my senior year in high school, but from my junior year. I cannot believe how young I look and don’t know why I wasn’t wearing my glasses, which I’ve worn since I was 5 years of age. My hair was short, which I don’t like, so I’m sure there was a reason for the style that probably originated with my mother. At that age, I was already working after school at the old drugstore fountain, a job I really loved because I was both busy and constantly interacting with people. When my father died, the job became a necessity, both financially and psychologically. There was no money, but much worse for me was that there was no daddy.

I looked through the yearbook and was pleased to recognize faces and names, and amazed to see all the autographs from people I’m sure don’t remember me. There’s a picture of Jerry, my neighborhood crush, with his girlfriend, and my heart recalled how awful it was to take Jerry to my senior prom because no one else would ever have thought to ask me, so I asked him and persuaded him when he found out that my older brother and my friend would be doubling with us. He and his girlfriend were not together at the time, but they made up the weekend before the prom—and he asked me to let him off the hook. I said no, and lived to regret it: my life would have been better had I not gone to the event, rather than going with someone who did not want to be there or to be with me.

Perhaps someday the memories will return and I’ll be able to retrieve some of the life on the pieces of paper, but it doesn’t matter whether I do or don’t. I’m here now, in this time and this place, and there is no going back and changing one’s life history. I’m not sure what to do with the box, with the papers, but my mom hung onto them for decades, so I guess I can wait a bit to make a decision.