In
the effort to avoid a depressing subject, I am sharing my little adventure in
going through my files to find the title of my car. It took me twice through to
locate the title. I traveled a territory spanning at least three decades. I
searched through three different files.
The
largest, looming at a full page, officially stamped, was my marriage
certificate. Could not for the life of me remember what I’d needed that for.
Ahh
the receipts. For someone who doesn't
itemize, I have a lot of receipts! Everything from ice cream shops to body shops,
not to mention movie tickets (remember Back to the Future?)
For
some reason, I had tucked a bunch of poetry and letters written many years ago,
under, for some reason, letter H. I read
through several letters written to someone named Nancy. Unmailed, Passionate,
that professed undying love, please don't leave me, that kind of thing, for
pages and pages!
I
was stunned. I had no idea who this Nancy was. Had I been in an imaginary relationship? Or, had I actually been writing letters, at
age thirty or so, to an imaginary lover? Was this a half-finished narrative from a
short story that I forgot I wrote? Who
in the Hell was Nancy? I don't know any Nancy,
or any Nancys. The handwriting looked
like mine. It took a good twenty minutes
of staring into space before it dawned on me; the woman I thought I would
never get over, over whom I had been devastated and bereft; I must have been
chuckling to myself the rest of the day and into sleep over that one.
The
other find was the roster for The Denver Golden Girls, my wonderful Lesbian
rugby team. I had started out just to
take part in practices to get into shape. But that game just sucked me right in.
I remembered practice, breaking through
tackles, when Harpo (her real name) tied to catch me by the waist band of my
shorts which were of a stretchy material, and more than my athletic talent was
revealed, however briefly. Though we
beat the women of The Air Force Academy I remembered only Harpo from that
roster.
Ultimately,
of course, there were receipts from doctor bills and shrinks and surgeons, but
I said I wasn't going to get into that. Suffice
it to say that some things just are bound to be forgotten. After all, isn't that why we have files?
© 23 June 2013
I
am an artist and writer after having spent the greater part of my career
serving variously as a child care counselor, a special needs teacher, a mental
health worker with teens and young adults, and a home health care giver for
elderly and Alzheimer patients. Now that I am in my senior years I have
returned to writing and art, which I have enjoyed throughout my life.
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