SOMETIMES YOU NEED TO LET GO.
The jacket from high school that no longer fits (and stop fooling yourself, it never will.) The “lucky shirt” that has more holes than memories. The empty wine bottle you kept for 20 years because you wanted to remember, but now have no clue what.
The concert ticket stub, the sunglasses you swear you might still use someday, the souvenirs that made perfect sense at the time but now collect dust on the shelf.
We hang onto these and so many other talismans because we believe they connect us to what was. As if the past were a tangible, physical thing — an object you could hold and feel.
We also hang on because we don’t want to forget. Because, deep down, we know we have already forgotten so much and that scares the crap out of us. Memories, once as vibrant as a bright watercolor painting, soon melt and drip off the canvas until our past is nothing more than a few muted streaks. We know there was once a painting but we can no longer see it, no longer touch it. So eventually we forget.
Still we must let go. It’s not healthy to cling to what was or pine for what can never be. The past does us no favors — worse, it can keep us from living in the present and planning for the future. So we need to purge those things that hold us down, keep us back, gather so much dust.
I repeat this to myself as my finger hovers over the glowing screen. Tap “edit,” then “delete contact.” That’s all, just two quick actions and it’s done.
It’s time, I say. It’s now been two years since I called that number. Two years since there was someone to answer. It’s time to stop picking up the phone in the middle of the night and filling the room with its ghosts.
Besides, it’s now 4 am and I’m tired and it’s the third time in a month I’ve done this yet all I do is stare and stare and stare until I turn the phone over again and let the room descend back into blackness.
Tap “edit,” then “delete contact.” Nothing to it.
It’s funny, I had the landline memorized but not the mobile. Didn’t need to, so why bother? I called by her name — we all do that now, call each other by name.
“Hey Siri, call Christine.” Call Thomas, call Kate. Call Home, call Work, call for reservations or for tickets or for appointments. Give your phone a number once and then forget it.
But now the name is a useless, colorless, lifeless painting. All that’s left is a number in the dark.
I turn the phone over and let the darkness return.
Sometimes you need to let go. But sometimes all you can do is hold on.