I am not sure this fits in here. Perhaps writing it out will tell me.
I am both enamored with and embarrassed by my propensity to record my past: boxes of letters, photos, dried flowers, ticket stubs, the like, the most trivial items collected and fastidiously stored. I like having these items for the photographs and films they create in my head.
I am embarrassed that they may be Frankenstein monsters I hope will come to life.
Tonight I came across a box from Esmeralda, my first love, the first woman who gave me water. It was the beginning of my life, five years of amazing conversation, friendship, nakedness and growth. Unfortunately, I realized that I did not want to marry her, and broke her heart. In the box, deep with her letters, was one she had written as we deteriorated in the Fall of 1990. She had returned to me a story I had written her while substitute teaching, and in the story I used a hall Pass to ask her on a date. Her words settled in me with such sincerity, something I am sure I missed eighteen and a half years ago when first given to me. In her words, I heard my words to ExA: the longing to not let go, wondering what happened, and a declaration that love will never die.
I realized that I still love Esmeralda, and hoped ExA will have the same revelation some day.
