The Bookcase

The bookcase isn't what I would call cluttered. It is home to many of the dusty little things that I have collected over the years. Each has its own story, each was carefully wrapped and packed every time I moved, and each sits in its own special place on the bookcase in the living room of whatever house I moved to. The bookcase itself is unremarkable; a reddish brown veneer with three shelves if you count the top and two doors that cover a cupboard at the bottom. No matter where I move, the bookcase always seems to be just the right length and depth to fit on the wall under the thermostat, and each shelf is the perfect height for viewing the trinkets that call it home.

The top shelf has become a catch-all for safety pins, buttons, and ponytail ties that I will "put away later." They are scattered there like my thoughts of what to do with them. A small lamp, a velvet-lined wooden box, and a candle lantern are the regular inhabitants there. The candle lantern, with a blue and green middle-eastern styled pattern on its ceramic base and a bulbous glass globe, is a wedding gift left over from my first marriage, and is always the centerpiece. It is beautiful. That's the only reason I have kept it for 25 years following my separation from husband number one. It holds no sentimental value. Every time I have moved to a new house, I carefully wrap and pack it, and then place it in its spot on the top shelf.

In the center of the second shelf is a dark greenish-blue glazed ceramic jar that my brother gave to me in a different lifetime. The cork lid disappeared long ago, but the jar is in perfect condition. "CHANGE" is deeply etched into the side. I used to think of it as a jar for throwing my nickels, dimes, and pennies into. Now, I know that my brother was telling me to change. Not that I didn't need to change, but he was not the one to make that call. My brother, Tim, was a schizophrenic who spent his formative years in a mental hospital. I heard he died about five years back. Now, with every move, my brother's "Change" jar is also carefully wrapped, packed, and replaced it in its spot on the second shelf upon arriving in my new home.

Surrounding the jar on the second shelf are pictures of my kids. Most were taken after their father (husband number two) and I separated. In an oval silver frame with ornate carving is a photograph of my kids dressed in their Christmas picture clothes smiling from Santa's lap. I couldn't afford to have pictures taken at a photographer's studio, so I would dress them up in their best clothes and sit them on Santa's lap for an annual picture. They didn't know the difference, but I'm sure Santa and his elves knew. I would stand out in front coaching them to sit up straight and smile. Now, at 18 and 20 years old, they still don't know and I will never tell them.

Another picture of them dressed up for Halloween stands next to one that my mother took of them with me in my cap and gown when I graduated from a hard-won three years at Community College. It is one of the better pictures of me; I do not consider myself to be photogenic. It had rained that day, my hair curled into tight ringlets, and I stooped down and put my arms around my children. They were just 5 and 7 years old but the pride shows on their faces, as it does mine. Thankfully, my mother was there to sit with them during the ceremony and take the picture later. It is always handled especially carefully when it is wrapped and packed each time I have moved, and returned to its place of honor. I pick it up and look at it frequently. It is one of the happier trinkets on my bookcase.

The third shelf holds memories of a darker sort. Two stacks of books sit prominently amid some relatively meaningless trinkets. Purchased for me by my last husband (number three), Tolkien's The Hobbit and The Lord of the Ring Trilogy and C.S Lewis' The Chronicles of Narnia show injuries of spotty water marks and curled page edges from reading in the bathtub. I read a lot while going through chemo-therapy and, like the scars marking my missing body parts, these books also bear the wounds of the battle. Along with the candle lantern, change jar, and pictures, they are dusty remnants of other lives--most better forgotten--and have been carefully packed and then replaced on the bookcase each time I have moved.

But just as the small trinkets that live on the bookcase shelves out in the open hold my personal triumphs and failures for anyone to see, the gullet of the bookcase holds my secrets. This is the dark place that I go only when I need to remember where I really came from. The magnetic doors quietly click open with a light push. Peering into the cave-like cupboard, the light reveals photos haphazardly heaped in albums. Faded pictures, some in black and white, are piled like the rubble of an old bridge that collapsed after it had been perilously crossed. These pictures mark the path that I crawled to emerge from the wreckage of my early life. They are the true testimony of who I was then--and who I am now. The cheery and brightly colored covers show no evidence of the raw emotion buried inside and craving a life that I refuse to give back.

I can only stay and look for a short while before I gently push them back into their respective piles and close the doors. The click of the magnets is barely audible as the doors latch. This is not a place to reminisce or laugh with a friend over a cup of coffee. It is a deep and foreboding hole that should only be looked into occasionally and never stepped into, whether on purpose or by accident. It is a barely-breathing life hidden away in the deepest recesses of my mind, and I avoid it at all costs. Nevertheless, these pictures have come with me to every new home. I never look at them; I just put them away quickly before they get enough air to begin growing.

I have to ask myself why I keep these things when they possess and rekindle such pain. When I move, why do I carefully wrap and pack them, and put each in its place on the bookcase? Maybe I do it out of habit. Or maybe I need to feel connected, in some way, to a past--any past, no matter how disturbing. Rolling it over in my mind, I realize that it is because
I am the bookcase. On shelves in my mind I keep all of the memories and emotions that these runes and relics symbolize. Some are attractive and some are not, some evoke anger, others satisfaction, and still others elation. All are dusty. Each one is a landmark on a path that I traversed in the best, worst, or only way available.

In the end, it doesn't matter who I was, how I treated or how I was treated by family, friends, and lovers; but it is how I lived then and live now that makes me who I am. So, when the next move comes, whether in one year or ten, I will as usual, take each thing from my bookcase, carefully wrap it, pack it and, when I arrive at my next destination, place it in its special spot on the bookcase that always fits perfectly on the wall under the thermostat.