Everyday I’ve walked by a large box. Inside the box was a collection of items. I’ve ignored these items for a while. I think, inside my head, they remind me of stuff I don’t, really, want to be reminded of. They remind me of smoke and fire. Of standing out in the cold shivering because, in the rush to get the roommates out, I didn’t grab a coat. They reminded me that I’d lost something the day I woke up to a fire in the wall.
I don’t know why that box has sat there with the items in it untouched since I, or Jared, or Jordan, put them in the box. But they have. They moved from Provo to Herriman and then back to Provo. Always ignored and yet, always seen every time I’ve needed to enter or leave either of the houses that box has sat in. People, on occasion, have pointed at the mess and said, “Why aren’t those clean,” or, “Is that still…” and then named the substance.
I’d look. I’d see. I’d make a comment like, “Yeah, leave me alone,” and then I would walk on, away. I didn’t want to see or think about the box or it’s contents. In my mind, somewhere, the box doesn’t, didn’t really exist. It’s a box that has to be tended to and, at the same time, it is a reminder of something I don’t want to be reminded of.
Fire.
Destruction.
My life going up, or down, in flames.
It reminds me that I had to make choices and decisions and then, when it was probably important for me to say or do something; all I could do was stand there and let someone else decide for me.
Then there was tonight. The box didn’t rule my life tonight. In my head I thought, “I need the crock pot soon,” so, I pulled it out. I grabbed a knife. I scraped what I could and then scrubbed the rest. It is still white.
And then I walked back into the room and saw my pan. It got pulled. Water added, soap, and it, too, was scrubbed.
And then I saw the plates. They were scrubbed clean.
Then the bowl.
And then I stopped to talk to my roommate (on of them). And it occurred to me that what was now clean wasn’t everything. There was still more. The more was important. It was vital. It was necessary. I needed to clean what else was in the box.
I discovered a pan and its lid.
And then I looked and saw my contact grill. It too needed to be cleaned and made available for use.
Then I went back and pulled out a couple of baking sheets and they got the treatment.
After that I went back and found a spoon, a fork, a knife, and they all went through the washing process.
Most everything was taken care of except for that box. The cardboard square that held the remnants of what feels like an old life. A life that… well… a life that existed before I woke up early on a Sunday morning and walked out into the common area of the house only to see fire leaping out of a plug. A life that existed, for me, before the chance that my belongings, my books, and my writing would go up in flames.
I can’t say why I am sharing this with people; the cleaning. Nor can I say why it seems important to me to have cleaned those things up today. It feels like a new day. A day where I am finally able to wake up, look around me, and see the light for what it is and the past for what it was. Maybe none of that makes sense.
But, the dishes are clean. The box is mostly empty. And soon, it may be tossed free from my life forever.
Now, no one can point at the box and say, “You still haven’t cleaned that.” Now, no one can point and ask, “Why is that like that?” Now it is all clean.