memory triggers

Twenty-four months ago, I took this photo

When I look at it, it reminds me of the beginning of my love of France.

It reminds me of that awful phase when I was obsessed with fashion and beauty and I wore the most beautiful clothes (because I could afford it then) but I paired them with the short thick slugs of eyebrows, braces on my teeth and an unfortunate haircut.

It reminds me of the deepest, sincerest love I felt for the beautiful French trainee teacher. That one took me a good six months to get over.



I took this photo exactly a year ago. A card I made for my sister on her birthday. A token of my love. (I need to make one tonight pretty soon, actually). When I look at photos of her this time last year, I feel sad about how thin she looks but happy because she was ill and now she's better. When I look at this photo, I don't think about her at all but about the boy I started talking to again last spring and I realise how epically sad it is that a year later my sister has overcome her horrible illness and I'm still wallowing over something silly.

I'm not that shallow though. This photo, taken at little sis's party reminds me of my best friend. Who was there. Who I haven't spoken to for a couple of months and who I haven't really spoken to for over half a year.

I took this today. This book would have been bought by one of my grandparents. I've only read a couple of pages, but I still think it's beautiful, and I love it for the so many hundreds of feelings and memories it triggers.

The lamp said,
“Four o’clock,	70
Here is the number on the door.
Memory!
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair.
Mount.	75
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life.”
The last twist of the knife.

Rhapsody on a Windy Night, T.S. Eliot