The Memory Collectors
There is a small bag that sits beside my desk; I call it my love bag. It is the first thing I would grab if the house were on fire or if I had to leave suddenly. It holds mostly papers — cards from family members, all of my newspaper interviews, a drawing from my oldest niece. But there are other things too — a military dog tag, my mom’s journal, a bracelet that belonged to my Mammaw, a small wooden animal my dad made when I was a baby. Below the bag sits a box that contains almost every photo I own. It is the second thing I would grab ( I realize there is a safer and more efficient way to store these, but I like that they are so accessible, which for safety purposes, is probably counterintuitive.) There are other belongings I’d certainly be disappointed about if I never saw them again, but those two contain the treasures I don’t want to live without.
I am not someone who likes “things.” I don’t like unnecessary items or the latest technology. A large part of my tiny house dream is because I don’t want to be surrounded by stuff. The only exception to this is books, but even that has changed over the years. My collection that once held several hundred has been pared down to around 90, and every few months, I look at my bookshelves and ask myself if I really need all of them.
I was always like this to some degree, but it became more intense after my mom died. There were items I had a hard time getting rid of; a scarf she got me I didn’t really like anymore, a ripped sweatshirt. But eventually, those went too. My car's trunk is littered with the For Tax Purposes papers you get from Goodwill when you drop off a donation. It feels like a cleansing each time, a starting over, a chance to be a different, better version of myself. I watch those tiny house shows, and they often try to get people ready for tiny house living by giving them a Rubbermaid tote and telling them they need to fit all the personal items in it that they want to take with them. The soon-to-be tiny dwellers always struggle. But I am envious. I wish someone would give me a tote to fill so I can let all the access go.
My sister Becky is the complete opposite of this. Her house is a museum to the lives of my mom and mammaw. Objects hold memories and comfort for her in a way they never have for me. I like visiting her house, seeing the substance of my childhood. But I could never live there. It would feel like being suffocated by ghosts.
I read a lot, and most of what I read falls into the “ Pleasant but Forgettable” category. I am a crier, and I rarely cry while reading. If you asked me the plot of a book a week after I read it, I could maybe tell you a little bit about it but not anything that would give you a sense of the entire book. A book rarely affects me like the one I recently read, The Memory Collectors by Kim Neville. The Memory Collectors is a fantasy novel about the objects of our life and the memories we imprint of them. The two main characters, Ev and Harriet, have the ability to read emotions on objects. All the emotions. Love, longing, sorrow, pain, anger. It made me think about the pieces of my life. I wondered if there were gifts I sent out into the world that invoked a particular emotion for their recipient. I wondered why most of the “things” of my life held so little emotional value for me.
As you can imagine, because of the onslaught of human emotion, this is a pretty dark book ( it is unlikely I’d like it so much if it was a mostly feel-good story, feel-good is not my thing). The darkest part is a gruesome murder that is an important part of the story. In one scene ( I won’t be specific in case you want to read the book), a character is holding a box containing the murder weapon, a pair of scissors, and she doesn’t want to put it down because her “mom is in there.”
I had to put the book down at that point and cried.
But shortly after thinking, I will not be able to finish this book, I thought, I wonder what happened to the knife?
In the first few days after my mom’s murder, the man I was dating at the time would preemptively read all the newspaper articles to determine whether or not he thought I could handle it. There were so many of them, and they were mostly the same; a double murder and suicide in a small town is big news, but with everyone dead, there wasn’t much story there. Then one day, he said, “don’t read anything today.” I was annoyed; my mom was murdered. Can it truly get worse? It can. I read it anyway, and here, a new detail: Her throat was slashed in addition to the gunshot wound.
It would be another few days before I found out that almost certainly happened after she was already dead.
When we visited the coroner’s office to read the report, it was just my step-dad and I. We both declined to see photos. “Most people never want to see them, but they will be here if you do,” she said. What kind of person wants to see that, I thought. ( Me. I’ve thought about looking at them many times in the past few years). She reviewed the evidence, explaining the knife wound but saying it was the bullet that killed her. Death = Seconds, it read. My step-dad interrupted to ask what happened to the gun. He explained he was a gun owner and frequently bought guns and didn’t want to accidentally buy that one. It seemed a silly question at the time, how would he even know? It wasn’t until reading The Memory Collectors that I thought about his question again. Maybe he’d be perusing a local gun show, nothing really grabbing his attention, until he feels pulled to a certain table. There is a gun calling to him, but once he gets closer, he is hit with a wave of horror as he realizes the gun he was drawn to killed the woman he loved for over 25 years.
I was obsessed with the knife after I read about it. What the fuck was the point of it? ( Of course, now that I know a lot more about domestic violence, I can fairly easily answer that question). It wasn’t just that knife. It was all knives. I couldn't even use a steak knife in my own kitchen for months. I would start to panic and shake as if they’d start flying out of the butcher’s block and aim for my throat. That year at Halloween, a little boy came to the door with a bloody plastic knife, and I shook as I gave him his candy, closed the door, and turned out the light.
I don’t know what happened to the knife. Perhaps it sat in a police evidence bag before it was tossed. Perhaps it still sits there. I wonder what memories it collected before it collected my mom’s blood.
My most prized possession is the wedding band my dad gave my mom. Monetarily, it isn’t worth much, if it’s worth anything at all. It is a thin silver band with their initials engraved on the inside. JLA + BAA. They were married nine years and divorced when I was eight. It was not an epic love story. But my dad is an earnest romantic. I like to think about what made him decide to get it engraved; if he thought it would help ensure their bond was unbreakable. I wonder if my mom thought it was sweet or lame. I wonder how many times she sat alone with her thoughts, twirling the ring, trying to figure out how to tell him she wanted a divorce. I wonder when she took it off for the final time.
She gave me the ring when I was a teenager, and it hasn’t left my hand since. It’s occupied different fingers over the years. Someday, one of my brother’s kids will own it and hopefully, put it on their finger or the finger of someone they love.
I wonder if they will feel all of the memories it has collected.