From my personal journal, candid and without editing, written on June 26th, 2015.
If you don't want to acknowledge that a trip is over, you don't do laundry. Plain and simple. Surely if your bag just stays there on the floor, all zipped up and patiently waiting to go, then this means that at any moment, you are prepared to open your eyes and re-arrive at the missed destination.
So don't do laundry, and don't take off the wristband. Never, I tell you, never take off the wristband. Even when the coloring that was once a bright and inviting highlighter yellow has faded to white. Even when the edges are frayed, leave that wristband on because it needs to be just as ready to go as your still-packed bag.
So if you really don't believe the trip is over, then don't do laundry, and don't take off the wristband.
My clothes smelled like Costa Rica. I had a hard time putting them in the washing machine because when I buried my nose in them and breathed them in, the scent of Buena Vista, and bug spray, and long, glorious days of work and travel filled me up. No matter how deeply I breathed it into my lungs I couldn't get enough, and the sad part is that I knew it'd be the last time that exact smell would be filling my senses.
Nothing has made me feel more like the trip is over than that.
Not answering "Pura Vida" when people in Texas ask me how I am, not attempting to inhale the dirty air here, not reflecting on the expansive and lush mountain tops we could look out upon each day. No. It's unpacking the *expletive* manure-caked boots and shaking out the bug spray-drenched clothing items.
I feel like memories are preserved in our clothing. Whatever state they are in reflects the moments that they were weaved into the story of our lives. Though time for us is transient and continuous, the same cannot be said for clothing. When we take it off, its breathing stops and thus those memories are frozen until we shake the clothes free. They are reflective of what they are present for, those sweet and vitalizing moments that make us feel animate... that make us feel whole.
Therefore, washing my clothes indicated that there is no longer tangible evidence of my memories, and instead they now solely reside in the haven of my mind. I guess it's always so hard for me to say goodbye and acknowledge that trips are over because I fear that the vividness of things will fade away right along with the scent of the worn clothes.
Being back has been an odd experience because it feels like I never left. It feels like I was here the whole time, and yet there's this small sort of nagging feeling in my chest that is pushing me to know that something is out of the ordinary, that I've been somewhere, another place, another time. A hint that although everything looks the same, nothing is really the same at all.
So I'm back, and my clothes are in the wash. And though each day tries to inch forward and convince me of routine, there is still that pinch. That small pinch harboring my being in which all the brilliant memories collect and rest, reminding me of their beautiful occurrence.
And there they will thrive.
Brooke McKinley Smith
If you don't want to acknowledge that a trip is over, you don't do laundry. Plain and simple. Surely if your bag just stays there on the floor, all zipped up and patiently waiting to go, then this means that at any moment, you are prepared to open your eyes and re-arrive at the missed destination.
So don't do laundry, and don't take off the wristband. Never, I tell you, never take off the wristband. Even when the coloring that was once a bright and inviting highlighter yellow has faded to white. Even when the edges are frayed, leave that wristband on because it needs to be just as ready to go as your still-packed bag.
So if you really don't believe the trip is over, then don't do laundry, and don't take off the wristband.
My clothes smelled like Costa Rica. I had a hard time putting them in the washing machine because when I buried my nose in them and breathed them in, the scent of Buena Vista, and bug spray, and long, glorious days of work and travel filled me up. No matter how deeply I breathed it into my lungs I couldn't get enough, and the sad part is that I knew it'd be the last time that exact smell would be filling my senses.
Nothing has made me feel more like the trip is over than that.
Not answering "Pura Vida" when people in Texas ask me how I am, not attempting to inhale the dirty air here, not reflecting on the expansive and lush mountain tops we could look out upon each day. No. It's unpacking the *expletive* manure-caked boots and shaking out the bug spray-drenched clothing items.
I feel like memories are preserved in our clothing. Whatever state they are in reflects the moments that they were weaved into the story of our lives. Though time for us is transient and continuous, the same cannot be said for clothing. When we take it off, its breathing stops and thus those memories are frozen until we shake the clothes free. They are reflective of what they are present for, those sweet and vitalizing moments that make us feel animate... that make us feel whole.
Therefore, washing my clothes indicated that there is no longer tangible evidence of my memories, and instead they now solely reside in the haven of my mind. I guess it's always so hard for me to say goodbye and acknowledge that trips are over because I fear that the vividness of things will fade away right along with the scent of the worn clothes.
Being back has been an odd experience because it feels like I never left. It feels like I was here the whole time, and yet there's this small sort of nagging feeling in my chest that is pushing me to know that something is out of the ordinary, that I've been somewhere, another place, another time. A hint that although everything looks the same, nothing is really the same at all.
So I'm back, and my clothes are in the wash. And though each day tries to inch forward and convince me of routine, there is still that pinch. That small pinch harboring my being in which all the brilliant memories collect and rest, reminding me of their beautiful occurrence.
And there they will thrive.
Brooke McKinley Smith