I Am a Hoarder of Memories But Can’t Remember What I Had For Breakfast

I have a loose-leaf piece of paper that I keep in the back of my journal. All that’s written on it is a rating system of the pizza from Santarpio’s, a restaurant I went to on a second date with the first guy I liked since having my heart broken. It’s a small chart that barely takes up a quarter of the page. Looking at it, I don’t even understand some of what is written anymore. I haven’t spoken to him since that night (or more accurately, he hasn’t spoken to me since that night), but the memory of our meal still lives in the back of my journal that I carry everywhere with me. Occasionally, when I open my notebook to write, this piece of paper slips out, a constant reminder of something that could have been. Every time this singular piece of paper falls out, I know I can easily just toss it out. I know I should throw it away. But I refuse to. I can’t seem to bring myself to leave it behind.

There’s a print of a leopard that sits on the windowsill right beside my desk. Every time I open the blinds, I am greeted with its yellow eyes. Every day, when I sit at my computer to start my workday, my gaze is drawn to this painting. The leopard stares back at me, surrounded by a thick white border of a canvas frame. It’s nothing special. Sorry, but it’s true. It’s not the most magnificent work of art I’ve ever seen. But I still keep it on my windowsill because it was gifted to me by the last person I fell in love with. He handed it to me on my 21st birthday (a truly pivotal and unforgettable day for any college student, for better or for worse), and I felt like the luckiest girl in the world. With the way I felt, he might as well have handed me the original manuscript for my favorite book. Why I keep it, I don’t know if I could say. Maybe it’s because I still love him. Maybe it’s because I don’t. Sometimes I think I should incinerate it, the way you cleanse your life to rid of someone no longer in it. But, what a waste. Art, regardless of its history, does not deserve such a vicious ending just because I am too sentimental. So, this picture of the leopard remains on my windowsill, just like the way his favorite T-shirt lives in the back of my second dresser drawer, another piece of him I have yet to burn.

In my nightstand, I have an overflowing collection of cards and letters and envelopes. They document milestones in my life, from birthday notes from my fourteenth birthday to cards written in Chinese that I have yet to decode congratulating me on my baptism, to anniversary letters from my ex-boyfriend celebrating even the smallest of occasions, like dating for two months. Occasionally, I sift through this bundle of memories because apparently, I’m a masochist and the sting of nostalgia satisfies some deranged itch in me. In this heap of letters and such, there is a thin stack of index cards, wrapped up in a college-ruled piece of paper so not one card is lost. On each index card, there is a description of something I used to do (I love when you flip your head down so you can put your hair up in a ponytail. I can’t help but stop and stare). I received this gift from my first boyfriend, seven years ago. Thinking now, it was less of a gift and more of an olive branch to try and fix a relationship I had broken. You would be surprised at how poetic a couple of fourteen-year old’s could be when they think they’re in love. He is now married, and I am looking for a better picture to put on my Hinge profile. And still, I let these index cards burn a hole at the bottom of my nightstand.

I have this black long sleeve shirt in my closet that I haven’t worn for three years. It’s not ugly or unflattering. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. It’s a thin, breathable cotton material with the perfect sleeve length. The sweetheart neckline does wonders for my chest when paired with the right bra. My only qualm is that it’s cropped, which, when I obtained it three years ago, was the only style of top I would wear. This shirt wasn’t originally mine. My best friend, at the time, and I practically shared a wardrobe. Mi casa es su casa. Somehow, when our friendship had split apart at the seams, I ended up with this shirt. She also ended up in possession of some of my favorite pieces of clothing. I wonder if she still wears the baby blue zip-up hoodie. I wonder if she keeps it hung up in her closet, untouched for years but unable to be thrown away or donated. I wonder if she sometimes puts it on, but the weight of our love, the burden of our shared secrets, and echoes of past laughter is too much to bear. Sometimes, when I try on the black shirt, the history of our inside jokes and the loss of a soulmate sears into my pores, and I hastily peel it off my body before it melts into my skin. I fold it neatly and place it back into my drawer, buried underneath a pile of other shirts that don’t carry the grief of someone I once loved.

I’m a hoarder of memories. I collect bits and pieces from everyone who has ever loved me, afraid to let anything go as if getting rid of these letters and gifts and knick-knacks would somehow make me forget they existed in the first place. I think I am too sentimental. Or maybe, I amass all of these keepsakes to prove that I am loveable, that I have been loved, that I will be loved again. See? Here it is! You can’t deny the written word. You can’t say that I have not been adored in my lifetime, and I have just the things to prove it!

I do not know who is asking.