Holiday home is a storehouse of memories

Coming home for the holidays is hard, what with every piece of furniture, every corner, every surface steeped in memory. It’s hard to step from an adult life — with its possibilities and responsibilities — into a child’s life. Or, rather, your life as a child, with its hemming in and its restrictions and, yes, its possibilities, too.

If coming home is challenging, it can also be gratifying. We not only store our memories at home, but we also tuck away our hopes and dreams, the promises we made to our younger selves. At home, we can run a hand over those onetime wishes. They serve as a touchstone to our grown-up selves.

My wise friend Ken once said it’s good to have a cache of inspiration for the tough times that lay along life’s path. It’s especially good for writers, he said, but I imagine they can also work for matters of the heart.

In fact, I recently discovered that I had created my own romantic stash. During a particularly trying romantic period this summer, I discovered an old make-up case tucked into the attic of my childhood home. Inside the case, I found the cracked lipstick tubes — now covered in dust — that held the glossy pinks and shiny reds that once promised a prettier me. I found flat bars of lavender soap, still in their paper wrapping, pieces had meticulously stored and saved for when I grew older and more sophisticated. Among the mishmash of make-up and early adolescent keepsakes, I came across

a series of love letters written by my first-ever boyfriend. The were charming and tender and no less powerful than anything I’ve received since. What they did for me — like my rainy-day inspiration cache — was remind me that at one time, someone cared enough to pen poem that included a line like, “She is so fragile, if I touch her she w ll shatter.” They help me remember the bright spots in the romantic road map of my life. I never bothered to take them with me on my travels, but I left them instead in the one secure place where I store all of my memories.

But if home is a memory keeper, then it is also the place for letting go. I learned on the drive home for the Christmas holidays that my old space in the attic had recently been cleaned out. Certain treasures — a pink make-up box among them — were thrown out in the sweep.

For a minute, I couldn’t breath. Those love letters were my heart’s cache. They documented the kind of sweet romance that pre-dates adult struggles; they were a testament to my adolescent worth.

Yet, as I try to create new space in my life this coming year, I wonder if it isn’t best to let go of a few old memories. Clutching at the past only keeps us from being open to what is to come. Perhaps, as we look to the new year, we would all do well to surrender a few old loves. That way, we can begin filling our storehouse with the memories of new romance. ¦

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