Box of memories
It wasn’t a very big cardboard box. Maybe big enough to hold a six-pack of your favorite beverage or four or five books. But, for several years, it held the nuggets of my previous life, the one where I lived in a small town in Belgium, went to a French-speaking school, took the train into Brussels on a Saturday afternoon to shop with my mother or walked down the street to buy a loaf of bread and good cheese. That life also included travels to various countries of Western Europe, encounters with so many people of various stripes, a rigorous educational system and, of course, a close group of friends whom I had had to leave behind at fifteen when my American parents decided that their work was done in Belgium and they were ready to move on. Since I had no say in the matter, I think I imagined the move a little bit like a trip from which I would never return. And how does one pack for that?
As I sorted through my possessions, I carefully chose those things that represented the important times of my youthful life, little nuggets that contained memories or feelings that I never wanted to forget: a small painted Swedish horse from a trip to Scandinavia, a poster of Jorge Donn and Suzanne Farrell dancing in Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring which I had gone to see with my best friend, invitations with artwork sent to my father for gallery openings for Max Ernst, Leonor Fini and others, a dirty string bracelet that a friend made for me, significant printed photographs and other items that would fit inside a small box.
Once I arrived on this side of the ocean, each time I would unpack in a new room, I would open my box and pull out objects to set on my shelves and images to put on my walls. They made each new place still somehow feel like I hadn’t ever left my bedroom in Belgium. During the day, I might immerse myself in my American life but I could always return to my own four walls where my other life still survived.
Until the day that I moved out of a college dorm room and left the box by the door. I planned to get it, was waylaid by a friend and, by the time I returned, it was gone. I never found it and I don’t know what happened to it.
At the time, I could only feel the loss but as I continued my journey, I realized that those pieces only prolonged my letting go. I had clung to them as life rafts as I made my way in a new world. Losing them made me face my new life, helped me move on and open new doors. Just last week, I spoke with a friend about this very thing. When loss happens, we can come to a place where we can look back and accept it, and finally, look forward and move on in hope. My loss became an opportunity to delve into a new world and start new boxes of memories. And, as another year begins, I look forward to making more.