All of us have memories, some joyful, some painful, and some that are, well, mainly complicated. These memories may linger in our minds or perhaps are tethered to long-forgotten mementos stored away in our overpacked drawers and closets. The poet Oscar Wilde once said, “Memory is the diary we all carry about with us.” Let’s hear about Nina Murphy’s poignant memories.
Nina Murphy is a freelance writer who works in books and real estate. She lives with her family in Bristol, Rhode Island.
Thanks to the state’s Stay-at-Home order last spring, I, along with other Rhode Islanders, attacked closets, bureau drawers and cupboards, cleaning out the excess from clothes to candlesticks. I had no excuse to not attack what had been haunting me from a corner of our cellar: boxes of memorabilia. I have lived in a handful of places since graduating from college, including a few years in Hawaii, and yes, my boxes followed me. I’ve often joked I’ve held on to enough items to house our own Family Presidential Library. What constitutes being valuable to keep and what to throw out? With some trepidation I lifted the lid off one of my bins and in a nanosecond I traveled to childhood, teen-hood, and adulthood. Concert ticket stubs, Road Race numbers, school papers were easy throw aways.
During one of the weekly Covid Zoom calls with college friends, I suggested we name it Chatham’s Corner after a party invite they had hosted thirty-five years ago. “Wow! You still have that?” was the incredulous reply. Just as incredulous was rereading long ago missives about college summers, a first job, or a “Is this the one relationship?” Wow, it is so easy to forget the essential role pen to paper once had in our daily lives. With a click of my mouse, I found some of those long-ago writers, and reached out. In all the darkness, it was a ray of light and appreciated by people from my past.
I came across a card with an uncashed $20 check from my late grandmother. She had always been stern and unaffectionate, quicker with criticism than with a compliment. In her flowing penmanship she told me I was a wonderful help with my younger siblings and I was a good daughter. She wrote of a beautiful full moon. It was signed Love, Nana. She would die alone two months later. I had no recollection of that card and her words expressing my worth. Over the ensuing decades with compassion and insight, I have come to understand why she was so wounded.
Sitting on the cellar floor, I was so grateful I had held on to that card and so many other pieces of my life’s puzzle. I believe it is ok to keep these gentle reminders of who I was, who I have evolved into, and of the people and experiences from my journey. I have only one life to call my own. I can always buy another pair of candlesticks.
