Bittersweet Musings (#1a)

I will keep this post short, and bittersweet. Back in January of this year I made a difficult decision: I was no longer going to volunteer at my daughters' dance studio. This past week, I tied up all loose ends. And that included a final solo visit to the storage unit. 

[Addendum: It is not short, and more bitter than sweet. However, it is lyrical, and, if you read it carefully, you may detect the sweetness. Maybe.]

In the early morning hours of an early summer day,

I stood before a storage unit filled with boxes, scenery, and props,

None of which belonged to me,

but after five years working inside there,

in the rain and sleet of winter nights, and asphalt choked summer days,

packing and unpacking, building, constructing, and wrapping,

with dry, cracked, bleeding, numb hands,

sweat equity tied my shares in perpetuity

to the objects within

that storage unit.

(I was there to collect my dividend check.)

For an hour, alone, I wrestled with a mess I had left six months before,

after a particularly exhausting venture that left me too tired to store these things properly.

In late December, I kind of tossed them in there, boxes, scenery, and props,

like the remnants of a broken dream

Hoping, that by spring, I had the energy and fortitude to confront things,

and put them in their proper place, neatly wrapped, for the next generation.

(And walk away with the profit I had earned.)

Alas, I spent all of Spring avoiding it, like some dying ex-friend,

promising to myself to make amends, to make things right,

but discovering excuses for the resentment

that drove the friend away in the first place.

However, in mid June, there was an urgent call

to tie up loose ends, 

and an internal debate to determine how soon to visit.

I chose Monday at 8 am

to say goodbye.

(And collect the interest on the debt owed to me.)

By 9 am, the unit was well organized

the boxes to one side,

the scenery to the other,

and the props, somewhere in between, wrapped.

That morning's forecasted precipitation never arrived,

but my usual bouts of perspiration did.

Sweat soaked, but, surprisingly not the least bit tired,

I drew down the metal door

locked it in place

got into my  car

looked back

to make sure I secured everything 

--like so many times before--

and drove away.

--like so many times before--

Probably for the last time.

(But the debits and the credits were equal, while auditors had tied-out all the journal entries.)

My car was full when I had arrived, 

and empty when I had left. 

Except for me,

and my memories.

(With the balance at zero, I closed the account.)

And something had played on the radio,

however, unlike Hollywood movies,

it was not pertinent to my mood.

(to be continued...)