Lover's Memorabilia
I thought of you and your birthday today...
I thought of you and your birthday today. Surprised that I remembered the date but glad that you no longer resonate. Thoughts of you still linger for me. And it’s not only because at the time I felt you were a long shot for me, but because of how much that relationship affected me for years afterward. I decided to tuck the memory of you away and never open it again, but when the date reappears, I remember you still.
Material possessions of old lovers sit on my mantle to preserve the memory of yesterday’s time with them. I always seem to be reminded of them by a song or a date. A scarf, or an album, a photo, or a postcard. A sugar dish, a spoon, a favorite mug, or a desk. A teapot, a crystal, a sweater, a blanket, an old note, or an old book. Their love lives in an old chair, a familiar scent, a vinyl player, a record, a sound, a film, or a tea blend recipe. They are all there, collected by fragments of sweet moments shared between us at different growing points in my life that I shared with them.
I still steep my favorite tea in that tea pot you gave me for my birthday. Still enjoy sipping earl grey tea, you know, the kind that you loved to drink while we connected in person at different Brooklyn coffee shops every once in a while that summer, pretending as if we weren’t what we were for each other. And when I am trying to see myself the way others see me, I pull out the images you took of me while we shared early mornings discussing photography. You took your camera out ever so smoothly and captured my essence in a way that made me feel loved and safe to authentically be myself. Whenever I travel, I bring that leather purse you found for me at that Goodwill in Long Island City for $3, because it’s the only one that’s both functional and creative. And on gloomy days, when I need a pick-me-up, I turn to the letters you’ve written of me that reveal the way you truly feel for me without hiding this time.
Lover’s memorabilia, as in I no longer make creole gumbo or red beans and rice because I learned how to make that with you. I no longer strategize creative endeavors as a hobby with a lover who too has the same passion for music and film like me. I no longer play vinyl records with old songs that scat and crumble from years of cosmetic damage, just to hear that one chord change from Looking For Another Pure Love, a song we both enjoy more than any of our friends. Lover’s memorabilia, as in I turn away from Julia Street in New Orleans when I visit because it reminds me of a time where we celebrated our union for a week with our dear loved ones, caught in the bliss of what forever would look like.
But when I am brave enough, my thoughts linger on moments when our laughter was shared across rooms when we introduced each other to each other’s culture, competing to claim which region was better. These memories rest at the forefront of my thoughts of you. Memories that are still good because the most recent ones have soured my thoughts and removed traces of you as a form of protection.
