Broken Bones

Oh look, it’s Monday.

I’m not sure how that happened either but here we are, Week 2 of School underway, and nobody yet has had a meltdown. It could have happened this morning thanks to the lack of milk for a cuppa, but driving past a Supermarket on the way back from School Run has assuaged the caffeine addiction for the rest of the morning. I have a clear and precise set of ‘Things to Do’ to my right, and so nothing can go wrong. Except, from the bedroom, I am taunted from under the bed, and today I am going to deal with the problem, once and for all. The last bit of my past is trapped under the place I sleep: items hidden away just after my daughter was born. That means it will be just over a decade since they saw the light of day, and this morning is when I write this, then go upstairs and extract them. The sun will not go down today without this part of my life being exorcised, because I know now that it’s a metaphor for so much else I refuse to touch.


The stupid thing is that I have no idea what’s in there. It has been so long I assume there’s nothing of any actual value, or else I’d have gone in there earlier to retrieve it. There’s some clothing, but my shape has changed so much in 12 years I doubt that any of it will actually fit. There’s personal junk too but honestly, I can’t believe there’ll be anything worth keeping, but the longer I procrastinate, the worse it gets. This is the last part of my ‘therapy’ I need to attack, and I’ve managed to put it off since the beginning of the Summer. There’s always something more worthwhile to be doing, after all. The past can just remain where it is, and that will suit everyone just fine.


In fact, let’s be honest. Before I write anything else, I need to go do it.

So I did, and now it’s done. Six boxes cleared, a bunch of photos and documents saved, many more thrown away. Two lovely jackets I’d forgotten about, and shirts in a blue I love and that still fit, unbelievably after what will be 20 years. There is also a box of things that are just going to be taken, placed in a black sack and put outside tomorrow to go in landfill. I realise now I am creating my own revisionist history, but at this point frankly I don’t care. The dates are remembered, sure, but the details can vanish. I’m absolutely fine with that. If other people want to come along and remember the past with fondness? That is entirely up to them. For me? It is better off left where it remains.

Now that’s done, I feel oddly numb. It’ll pass.