Sometimes I wish the past were tangible,

That I could condense it into a little pebble,

Because, call me sentimental, but the past is something

I’d like to pick up and put in my pocket,

To carry close at hand while I search for a future.

Yes, I’d like to carry my past, stoic and unyielding,

The rock that grounds me,

Around in my pocket for the rest of my life,

So that when I’m scared I could hold it

And remember how I felt the first time he held my hand,

So I could run my fingers across it

And be reminded of how I used to run my hand through your hair,

So I could feel the comfort of every person I have ever loved

With simply the flick of a wrist.

I want the past to be a pebble that fits in the palm of my hand,

And I don’t ever want to let it go.

Because if the past were my pebble,

Then I wouldn’t have been shell-shocked at finding a shoebox full of your old letters,

Because I’d already be carrying around all that joy and all that pain,

I wouldn’t have been brought to tears as I re-read each one,

And it wouldn’t have hurt to throw them away.

If the past were containable and restrainable,

Then mere things couldn’t bridge gaps between years.

And maybe life wouldn’t hurt so much,

If we could hold everything we’ve ever had at one time,

If even the things we’d lost we still held onto.

Though, when you think about it,

The things we’ve lost are the things we hold onto most dearly:

Case in point, this box of letters,

Which it pained me to throw away.

An emotional packrat, I’d already been carrying around all that joy,

And, masked in it, all that pain…

Finding them just brought it out of hiding.

Then and there I realized I wouldn’t want a pebble:

There wouldn’t be room to breathe in between past pleasures and past pains,

Life’s ups and downs would cancel one another out,

Leaving a rather drab straight line.

Maybe living with the past is just as bad as living in it.

We can’t ever have a solid future if the tiniest hint at our past

Reduces me to tears.

And there’s no good without the bad,

So I have to let it all go.

I took a deep breath and overtuned the shoebox into the trash can,

Let out one last sob and closed the lid.

I don’t want to be a rock—

Things that cannot change cannot endure.

I can remember when we sung to one another,

But the sweetest song is the one we haven’t yet heard:

For the first time, I’m going to be brave enough to let

Possibility win out over familiarity.

It’s time to start something new.