Retrospective Lily

(written with a Carrie-Bradshaw-narrating-her-life-while-gazing-out-the-window-of-an-NYC-apartment-wistfully vibe, but a suburban version)

Recently, I’ve been reorganizing some things.

Anyone who’s undertaken the task of getting their sh*t together knows some parts are fun, and some parts are tedious.

Fun: reading the (so-bad-it’s-good) short story I wrote in 6th grade. finding letters my best friend wrote me after she moved a few states away. looking through old photos of my little brother and me.

Tedious: debating whether to donate clothes I haven’t worn in two years, though they do technically fit. tackling doom boxes aka junk drawers. deciding what is trash vs. what might be useful someday.

My American suburban privilege becomes clear as I unearth years worth of junk. And sentimental items – the things I feel some obligation to keep – take up JUST as much storage space as useless crap, unfortunately.

I wonder, is our impulse to hang onto anything that ever MEANT something to us a testament to the power of memory? We need relics to connect us to the joy, the realness of certain moments in time – to keep them alive.

Or is it just another expression of our overindulgence, or even fear? Overindulgence by not letting the moment pass, the need to keep savoring it indefinitely. Fear of forgetting, losing the connection.

Well anyway, if you need an address book from the 2000’s, let me know.