Sometimes, we are better to leave those first loves, tightly wrapped, inside those proverbial boxes of our minds. There are some things best immortalized as perfect.
Somewhere along the roads of life, we choose which paths we will travel down. Deep inside our minds, we carry small, fragile boxes of memories and experiences, each of which contributes to the people we are today. These packages, you understand, aren’t the types that are ripped open on a conscious level as we make decisions, cradle moments and navigate new, unforeseen roads. Rather, they are tied with a beautiful ribbon or sturdy string, and perhaps sometimes, if the moment is just right, we might carefully untie their bows and touch things again, careful to place things back just the way they were.
I have traveled on many roads. Some have been destructive. Many have been hazy. And yet somehow I have found a path that is paved in wonder and delight and growth. It isn’t too often that I look back down at those other roads I have been on — roads that now fit together rather neatly and have been sorted through efficiently and boxed up so well in my mind. And yesterday I had such an opportunity. It was a bittersweet moment and it makes me question whether some boxes are better off left alone, tied up and dusty, and so perfect just as they are.
Ten years ago, as a very young, particularly adventuresome woman, I met a man. As is often characteristic of young women who are searching for where they belong in the universe, I took some chances — I ran away with him. We shared a few enlightening, unforgettable months together — flat broke, in a strange place — reveling in the amazement of each other and the particularly sweet kind of love that only the young share.
I remember, at the time, thinking of the phrase, “You can’t live on love,” and wondering who was asinine enough to believe it, for we did just that. It was a marvelous journey, rich with self-discovery and joy, and full of the wonders of a world that had everything to offer.
As with many idealistic young romances, it ended. I wallowed for a while with sad songs to keep me company. And then I started down a new road. This one was also winding and twisting, but this one was paved with the knowledge that real life is just as magical as any hazy, dream-like world.
This road has brought me to a point in my life where I no longer own the world but one in which I feel as if I belong wholly. For within the whirlwind vortex of a full-time career and the joys of motherhood, I don’t often travel backwards. And although I have never forgotten those old boxes, I don’t often have the inkling to open them.
When I opened up my e-mail yesterday and found a note from that long ago man, the same person whom I had frozen as a distant, perfect, misty dream, I couldn’t stop myself from looking inside that box in my mind. Without more appropriate thoughtful hesitation, I ripped past the ribbon, tore the paper and dusted off the memories.
But, alas, it wasn’t as it had seemed. For underneath the memories I had managed to keep at the surface, there lay some on the bottom that I hadn’t bothered to recall: the pain of being in that awkward position of only having one foot in the adult world, the difficulties of the sort of possessive love that a woman/child experiences, and the wonder of the “what ifs” that float around one’s head, contemplating the different paths that one may have chosen.
As I closed that proverbial box shut, and as I looked at this woman in the mirror, I couldn’t help but notice the new and still unfamiliar lines around my eyes. And I smiled for the wisdom that has come with them. Ever so gently, I tied up the ribbon once again. Some roads are better left alone to collect dust and be immortalized.
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