I get attached to the strangest things.
Seriously. I find myself with emotional attachments to these things.
As if they’re physical memories.
As if I’ll lose the memory if I lose the object.
As if they’ll end up in a museum someday and not in a garbage bag as my children clean out my house after I’m dead.
Hoarder? Probably.
But every Spring I make myself throw things out.
And it hurts.
What’s the point of keeping all these things? Do my memories become less real if I don’t have a physical souvenir?
Maybe.
I can move people in and out of my life like a shuffleboard game, but I’d rather not throw out a Lucky Charms pencil I got when I was seven years old.
The human experience is a strange sticky tree, branching out in directions you can’t explain and could never predict.
