There's something about being home, where your parents used to live as husband and wife, where your brother and sister still occupied their bedrooms and the assortment of various pets decorated the kitchen floor, that brings a succession of memories to mind.
Starting with the closet in my bedroom. I haven't opened it for years. And now, a collection of ancient clothing, stacked and dumped, curdled and twisted, stares back at me and all I want to do is empty it. Get rid of this past and stuff it into a bin bag. Some items I tenderly pull out, pressing the hard cotton against my skin, watching myself in the mirror, wondering if it still fits... It doesn't. My boobs bulge out, my shoulders stretch the seams and my twenty something belly pokes out from underneath. Nope, really can't get away with wearing this one anymore.
My room's basically a collection of seventeen year old gadgets, posters, CD's, stacks of misunderstood mail, dolls; plastic and porcelain, stuffed monkeys, bears, rabbits and dogs, sticky bongs collecting dust and the inevitable fog of almost a decade worth of memories piled up, ready to be absorbed for lunch.
Some nostalgia hangs like a coat hanger in a closet, naked from any garment, swaying back and forth, wondering if it will come to any use again. Other nostalgia hangs heavily still, seeping deep into the floor boards, creating unwanted rings.
No longer that girl I was ten years ago, it's time I cleaned my past from any cobwebs that might still linger.
And I finally feel ok to do that.