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So. Placeholder for forever.
I went to my attic today looking for my favorite childhood book, The Lorax. I couldn't find it. Instead, I found boxes upon boxes filled with the treasures of my childhood, things worthless to me even then but that my 10-year-old self couldn't part with simply because they were mine: strawberry baskets turned into cages for now-dismembered cotton ball animals, volumes of magic eye books that I never opened, boxes upon boxes of McDonald's toys with the screws rusted from the humidity of the attic, cans full of unsharpened pencils commemorating some school or museum or hotel whose names had been worn away despite never being handled, boxes for Super Nintendo and Nintendo 64 and PlayStation and PlayStation 2, all still containing the plastic bags and wires used to package the products. Each box was home to a wasp carapace or two and insulation that had fallen from the walls.
Some might have picked up each laser gun and removed the urine-colored plastic panel that revealed white and turquoise corrosion that immediately lept into the air to sting reminiscing eyes, or pulled each Pokémon card from its sleeve to reflect on its performance in the tournaments at Books-a-Million every Saturday morning, or recalled how a particular balsa airplane always banked left.
I was overwhelmed with disgust. These things were part of my childhood, but they did not define it. Getting sick because I played soccer in the rain defined my childhood. Having my calves covered in chigger bites because I chased fireflies across the acres of field behind my house defined my childhood. Practicing violin while taking my asthma medication every day defined my childhood. These hunks of plastic were brightly colored and excessively packaged lies. They evoked memories like commercials focused only on the product, complete with bassy announcer voice and high-contrast logo. I remembered the manuals for Legos, the cheat for Contra, and the ads for Erector sets showing little Aryan boys with inhuman grins. I couldn't remember the names of any of my classmates from elementary school.
I don't want to remember manuals and codes and ads and inhuman grins and gray-blue eyes that begged me to spend my allowance. I want to remember the red-haired boy who saved me when I walked into the deep end and gave me lice in the same day. I want to remember the blond girl who drew comics with me during math.
I left my attic today carrying boxes of plastic, paper, and metal, and set them on the street next to the trash bin. They will all be gone when I wake up tomorrow.
I went to my attic today looking for my favorite childhood book, The Lorax. I couldn't find it. Instead, I found boxes upon boxes filled with the treasures of my childhood, things worthless to me even then but that my 10-year-old self couldn't part with simply because they were mine: strawberry baskets turned into cages for now-dismembered cotton ball animals, volumes of magic eye books that I never opened, boxes upon boxes of McDonald's toys with the screws rusted from the humidity of the attic, cans full of unsharpened pencils commemorating some school or museum or hotel whose names had been worn away despite never being handled, boxes for Super Nintendo and Nintendo 64 and PlayStation and PlayStation 2, all still containing the plastic bags and wires used to package the products. Each box was home to a wasp carapace or two and insulation that had fallen from the walls.
Some might have picked up each laser gun and removed the urine-colored plastic panel that revealed white and turquoise corrosion that immediately lept into the air to sting reminiscing eyes, or pulled each Pokémon card from its sleeve to reflect on its performance in the tournaments at Books-a-Million every Saturday morning, or recalled how a particular balsa airplane always banked left.
I was overwhelmed with disgust. These things were part of my childhood, but they did not define it. Getting sick because I played soccer in the rain defined my childhood. Having my calves covered in chigger bites because I chased fireflies across the acres of field behind my house defined my childhood. Practicing violin while taking my asthma medication every day defined my childhood. These hunks of plastic were brightly colored and excessively packaged lies. They evoked memories like commercials focused only on the product, complete with bassy announcer voice and high-contrast logo. I remembered the manuals for Legos, the cheat for Contra, and the ads for Erector sets showing little Aryan boys with inhuman grins. I couldn't remember the names of any of my classmates from elementary school.
I don't want to remember manuals and codes and ads and inhuman grins and gray-blue eyes that begged me to spend my allowance. I want to remember the red-haired boy who saved me when I walked into the deep end and gave me lice in the same day. I want to remember the blond girl who drew comics with me during math.
I left my attic today carrying boxes of plastic, paper, and metal, and set them on the street next to the trash bin. They will all be gone when I wake up tomorrow.