Cold Cup of Coffee

My original goal for the day was to write about the Response…but I am just not feeling it. So, maybe later.

I am struck by the memory muse because a bunch of my friends are posting in new groups on facebook about life back home. The sort of back home you can’t go back to. I have been reading posts all weekend about places that have long since disappeared and been torn down. Memories that you can share with your family and friends but you can’t take them to these places to make new ones.

It has made me think about the fragility of life, of places, of things.

I think I understand why some people become hoarders. It is because for one fleeting moment an item brought them a sense of joy and they don’t want to lose it. They have trouble letting go with the past because outside of themselves and their homes the world is in constant motion.

The only the eternal is this motion.

I commented over the weekend about my seemingly insensitive nature to get rid of things. I am constantly discarding and getting rid of items because I don’t want the clutter. I don’t want to think about where this came from or who gave that because if I sit there and think about it too much I will never get rid of anything.

My small apartment will become a dwelling place for the past and I think too much about the future to be weighed down by trivial things.

To some the items I discard may not be trivial.

But you have to realize in the end that much of what you have is just stuff. Stuff that could be part of the next landfill. So, if you want to think green, give more stuff away. Someone, somewhere may need your old speakers. They may know how to make them work again. Post it on freecycle, craigslist, anywhere there is a swap’n’shop-type website or store.

That being said, you can never go back home again.

In a post several months ago I wrote about my return to my hometown and it felt all wrong. Like a pair of jeans that I out grew.

I drove past the point of the lake that used to contain a resort I helped at for a few years, it was gone.

Bulldozed for progress.

Really, the mansion or property running alongside needed a bigger lawn.

The restaurant I worked at for a year and a half at the end of high school is no longer there either. The barge is, but the people that made the restaurant a tourist attraction are gone.

People are also not a constant.

Friendships end, evolve, explore, and even explode.

Not many of us have had the same friends for the last twenty years. Not many of us have the same family members that we had twenty years ago either. The ideas of the family have evolved in the last twenty years.

We are beyond just step families.

In the last ten years, much of my family has been the close friends that I have depended on for a shoulder to cry on, a hand to help me through the fire, and an ear to listen long into the night. I have needed them and I hoped that I was able to be there for them when they needed me. But many of those are ended also. I still talk to the girls I once worked with and we may know eachothers pains but the closeness we once shared is gone.

A new step in life and people pull away. Like a small thread in a sweater that you pull just a little, but then you make a hole. Eventually you pull enough and you no longer have a sweater.

I am glad that God created us with a memory. A memory that will hopefully function the rest of my days. A memory that will return to all the happy times and will lessen the intensity of the bad times.

A memory that like a cup of coffee is scalding at first, but over time becomes

a cold cup of coffee. Sweet and with the hint of what once was…


2 thoughts on “Cold Cup of Coffee

  1. critters and crayons says:

    We have a garage full of stuff I have carried around for years- not because I want any of it- but because it took time to go through it and that was a commodity I couldn’t afford to expend. Now, I’m home and I still have a hard time. Over 6 months, I’ve got it all indexed and boxed up and I’ve spent the time researching all the local charities. I don’t like Goodwill or Salvation Army, because the stuff doesn’t stay local- and most of it is sold to overseas textile manufacturers who resell it as vintage or turn it all into rags for sale in Africa. So, I become a hoarder because I am paralyzed by wanting to get the items to where they can do the most good- Each organization requires prior coordination, load up and drop off- and with 2 small kids in 115 degree heat every day (no exaggeration), my enthusiasm wanes. 🙂 But, I’m encouraged that the stuff is marked, organized and ready to go- Just getting it out is the tough part. Maybe in the next 6 months! 🙂

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