The Junk Drawer

There are tears that cut, but don't leave a mark,
Staying held deep inside, scarring the heart.
But where scars are left, your strength will begin,
Returning the joy, that was once held within.

-Written for all who are healing
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The Junk Drawer

I didn't remember I had put it there. I don't know why I would have. It was a hot day today, I was playing with the kids outside and wishing I had money to blow on a pool for the yard. I came inside to get drinks for everyone. I needed to send a card to a friend that was heavy on my mind, better do it now before I get tied up with the day. Her new address wasn't in my book, but I remembered I had received a card from her and had saved the envelope, I had placed it in my junk drawer.

How do so many memories end up in there?

You would never expect to be rifling though old bills and correspondence , clear tape and duplicate keys to find a tattered ticket that could stop you dead in your tracks. I take a moment to push the sweaty hair away from my face and breathe, just breathe. I hadn't gone to that concert, Seether and Evanescence, I had other things going on. You had taken it too far the night before. I was already broken, but you owned the pieces, and they weren't small enough yet, and for that, we missed the concert. I would let you come home again after a sorry or two, a viscous cycle of a heart trying to believe there was an ounce of good in you. I toss the ticket back in the drawer, what a shame, our favorite song, now so prolific in meaning.

Certainly there are good memories in here as well, I push on through the drawer. It hits me, I have not went this deep into this overflowing junk drawer in a very long time, lazy I guess. A four leaf clover brushes my fingertip and I pull it out. My daughter had found it, her dad and I still together at that time, her sister in a stroller, we were walking hand in hand down a gravel path to feed the ducks. When we got home, I covered the clover in clear tape to preserve it and dated it to remember, I was lucky, we were lucky. I couldn't have known the storm that was brewing in his heart and the actions he was taking with another when I thought it was clear, I was not good enough. Now I know it wasn't me, "we" were never good enough together, I have at least grown stronger because of him and a failed marriage. I should give this clover to my daughter, maybe she will remember this day. I am still lucky.

A sweet image surfaces, Halloween, us three girls dressed as cats and all smiling just like the Cheshire in "Alice in Wonderland", ready to have fun at a friends "spooky" party. I remember the oldest wanted to be a wolf, I begged her to be a cat with us and I would make her up "less girly" than my youngest and I. My son was not born yet. I was healing from the divorce. You came around shortly after this, made me feel wanted again, for a time. This picture belongs somewhere else. I need to put it in the family book, look how beautiful they are here, still are, young ladies growing up too fast.

My dad drew a character he called a Schmoragin. An alienesque creature with long eyes and a bulging belted waistline. He was always drawn getting into some sort of trouble. One day before he was really ill, my dad took the time to draw Scmoragin's on shrinky-dink plastic for me. I wanted to make a few pins or something for my kids to have, a whimsical item from their grandpa. We put them in the oven laughing and talking about life. Conversations were so joyous with my dad, he always was my angel. Why the hell are these in the junk drawer? My dad's unique cartoon character with a bright smile, holding a yellow flower, no doubt in trouble again for something. I question my judgement. These are treasures of the rarest form, they will go in my jewelery box until the girls are older.

What else would I find in here, am I even strong enough to look? And then it surfaces, a picture, you and me, smiling. There was no anger on your face that day. There was not that familiar whiteness around your knuckles as you held my shoulders, pushing in closer, smiling with love. The bruises you left were always hidden under my clothes, never next to a smile, where people might see and intervene. I was not scared or crying in this photo, my eyes were clear, but wary of the attention. You were sure you had me back, I had forgiven you time and time again, you owned me. When I stopped giving you power, you snapped, this was the last picture we took together, I hold it in my shaking hands now, as I tear up in disbelief that I made it through "those" nights. I had not been able to throw it away because it reminded me that there was good in you. I could tell you loved me here. You just weren't well, you were broken far worse than you had ever broken me. You sit in your jail cell for crimes of passion, anger and stupidity, I sit in mine, with memories of a nightmare that returns even in your absence. I don't need to know that you really loved me "back then" anymore, there is no justification. I take out that tattered ticket again and throw it away along with our picture, it's not even worthy of the junk drawer, it belongs in the trash.

How do so many memories end up in there?