A Work of Fiction Rooted in Truths
by Helina Bailey
There were boxes of memories stuffed into every corner. Stacks of bills and notes lined the drawers. The cabinets and pantry were bulging with cans. For as long as I could remember, there was always clutter. It was inescapable.
I often fantasized about living in an empty house, one bereft of memories. I imagined freedom filling up the spaces taken by the discord. It was too late for this home, and probably the next, because wherever mama went, her clutter followed.
Aunt Rose was addicted to clutter too, although it was more easily disguised, hidden in pretty boxes and delicate trinkets that decorated shelves in every room. Her appliances were the most obvious, but that was functional hoarding. She was a cook.
While Auntie Rose hid her condition better than Mama, they were both sick. Mama held on to pictures and letters, records and cassettes, and odd knick knacks that reminded her of the past. The bulging banana boxes in her room could scarcely contain all her memories. Aunt Rose, on the other hand, hid most of her memories in the cupboard, under the guise of being necessary for all the food she prepared. I once questioned the need for her aging Mortan tubs. She turned to me with a cold look and smugly replied, “My Dear, salt never dies.”
I knew that when I was grown and living on my own, I would not be like them. I would enjoy the pleasure of a quiet home. I would finally find my peace, without all the memories constantly shouting their whispers at me, desperate to be remembered.
Everyone in the family was aware, having been afflicted themselves in some way, but no one ever spoke of it directly. No one ever discussed this incessant need to hold on to everything.
As a child I liked to throw away little things, to see if my small act of defiance would be noticed. It never was. It would be so easy to discard and dismantle the sea of memories, if only someone would permit me.
It was nonsense, in my mind, to hold on to insignificant things like my great-grandmother's hair net, which I found in a tackle box of ancient artifacts at the back of the closet. It was tangled up with a little necklace of Poseidon, which I slipped into my pocket.
Mama and her sisters all laughed when I showed them my discovery. They had tears in their eyes, recanting their memories and sharing their stories. For a moment, I understood holding on, but then I began to see my great-grandmother watching me. Through the fogged-up shower glass, her tiny little frame, cross legged, sat on the sink smoking. Watching me.
I was terrified and began to cry. I apologized for having touched her things, but she would not leave. As my shower ran cold, I bolted for the door. Running down the hall, unable to breath, I told mama what I had seen.
“Oh, she just needs to go back home.” Mama said calmly as she retrieved her bundle of sage. Auntie Rose began to hum as mama lit the bundle and walked up the hall towards the room.
As I waited, my hatred for the clutter grew.
On that day, I swore that I would not fall victim to this illness too. When I was grown and living on my own, my home would be free of these memories. I would let go of the ghosts of my past, only having eyes for the future.
Grandmother says we never forget our past or our suffering, but we learn to let go. That is how our people have survived; and yet, I saw us all determined to entomb ourselves within our regrets and sorrows, burying ourselves in useless things that suffocated us and prevented us from living weightlessly.
I wondered, could it be that I was the only one to see the disease? Were they all blind to the boxes exploding with faded and jaded memories? When the boxes could no longer contain their insidious contents, they would vanish from sight, hidden but not gone.
“Did you change something? It feels different.” Someone would say, missing the clutter that was sure to soon re-accumulate. I would sigh, knowing that the memories were only tucked away somewhere else.
I never understood the reasoning behind their collecting, or why they could not let go, until I lived on my own. It started inconspicuously with a shoe box of my favorite memories. When my mementos outgrew the box, I had an urge to throw them all away, fearing that I might be infected with the disease. I laughed at myself. It was only a shoe box, not a lifetime’s accumulation of memories.
Suddenly, I found myself surrounded with memories from which I was unable to part with. Panic set in when I realized that I had filled up all my empty space. My mind was fooled into believing that my attachments were healthy because they were neatly displayed, lining my shelves and filling my drawers.
I was struck with terror when I looked at my collection of books I had already read and clothes I no longer wore, unable to bring myself to throw them out. There were too many memories woven into their spines, too many stories intertwined with their fabric. The thought of letting them go made me feel empty. At that moment, I discovered a void within my soul, a deep wound that could not close.
All my life I watched mama and Auntie Rose try to fill up the hollowness that was part of their souls, judging them. Now, I understood what grandmother meant. We move on, but our souls cannot forget, and though we survive, we all have a deep hole inside. That which has been taken from us can never be replaced, so we just do our best to fill up the empty space so we can carry on.
