A simple act.
A simple infrequent act.
A ceiling-high book shelf with every nook and cranny filled.
Books that run the gamut between “Archie’s Double Digest” and “The Chomsky Reader,” and every stop in between, fill the nooks.
The crannies are stocked with memories. And dust.
Many of these memories are ghosts of relationships past.
And, inevitably, one ghost rattles it’s chains louder than all others.
In ways that you’ve forgotten.
In ways that you sometimes only wish you could.
The Love Archaeologist discovering things that should have been painfully obvious at the time.
And probably were.
The Love Coroner trying to ascertain what went wrong.
Not as a means of love resurrection, but to… learn.
Nobody wants to be doomed to repeat the past.
With every uncovered letter, hand-made (!!!) card and picture, the ghost’s rattling chains become deafening.
The truly good ones come along so infrequently, we must notice.
We must try harder.
We must remember.
The Love Historian trying to give it all context.
Perhaps the room cleaning shouldn’t be such an infrequent act.