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A Metaphor? I Don’t Know.

January 14, 2011

Greeting me as I leave my physical therapist’s office, my right elbow and forearm stretched, massaged, therapeutically ultrasounded, and iced, is this teacher/editor/writer’s bouncy castle: The Container Store. Today, I only wanted holiday wrapping on sale.

BUT OH. What I dragged home (on my left arm) in my nylon shopper bag I keep in my purse for just such emergencies, the nylon bag I purchased at The Container Store last year. OH.

Giant. Collapsible. Green. Tote.

One use only for this tote: My Book, i.e. My Book About Memory. All its attendant binders, papers, and clippings. I couldn’t wait to fill it with memory the way, I imagine, one fills an album or brain or heart with memories. I can carry it to the lake house or living room. I can leave it in the middle of the office floor and not worry that it looks a bit stacky or piley. I just wanted to see everything I’ve learned about memory in one tidy tote. The books, of course, most of them borrowed from the library, aren’t here. But the papers, starting from the very first. All here in one place. And jumbled even. Because just outside the disorder are the comforting canvas walls.

A dear friend reminded me to live in the present as much as I seek the past. I think this might have been one way to embrace that. To put Memory in its place and roll around it on my desk chair, leaving fresh track marks in the rug, finding one cat by the window and the other by the closet to greet.

It’s so, so pretty, I had to take a picture.

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