The shoebox

Everyone has a shoebox, a collection of things they never use and rarely refer to. Bus tickets from foreign lands, movie tickets from a special date, a postcard of evocative memories.

I start to unpack my shoebox. At first it's easy, a lot of travel paraphanelia which I easily throw away. Photos of ex boyfriends; I take one with me. A one lira coin; a yeni lira - I pocket this to give away to a friend like a lucky dime. The order or service for one funeral, then another. The last newspaper article he ever wrote; a wry smile of rememberance. Letters from an ex who is naught but a memory, a letter from an ex who is always a friend - it's theme is "I hope you find what you're looking for."

I'm sitting on the floor amongst this emotional flotsam and jetsam thinking when will this moving end. When do I get to settle? What does it mean to settle? I smoothe the corners of holiday leaflets (Latvian concentration camps, cheery...), I pick up odd money with Arabic inscription, I stack notebooks holding the indecipherable answers to my heart and mind.

I leave the mess on the floor and finger the lucky lira wondering if the new owner will bring me the peace I'm looking for...