I believe that things are not memories, and I ought to remind myself of it now and again.
Memories, those slippery iridescent elusive little creatures I imagine as eels hiding in the tall grasses at the water's edge of my mind. They come, they go, just out of sight but for a tongue or a tail, an occasional rustle, shifting, resettling. They hide there for eternity, they shape shift sometimes.
Unlike the letters, stuffed toys, a pair of leather gloves, a single earring, these things are things are things are things.
The thing about the things is that they rattle those tall grass and draw out the eels. The things evoke memories, it's true, but if we rely on the things to rattle the grasses we run the risk of becoming confused, of mistaking one for the other.
Those elusive eels are hiding in the tall grass at the water’s edge even when the rooms are empty, when the last dresser drawer has been emptied and the door is closed, memory remains.