I really can't picture anyone having a crush on me. I can’t picture someone thinking about me before they fall asleep, or telling their friends about me. I can’t picture anyone getting butterflies because I said hi to them, or even just smiled at them. I can’t picture someone smiling at the computer screen or their cell phones when we’re talking. I mean like; why would they even do that? I’m just me. Nothing extraordinary, or special.
Certain things must be here. Most importantly the pile of sticks in the fireplace. Every one of those pieces of wood is important. Written on each is a date and a reason. I have never counted, but would guess there are twenty now. Hugh’s collection was much larger, but he started his years before I did.
It was Hugh’s idea: when anything truly important happens in your life, wherever you happen to be, find a stick in the immediate vicinity and write the occasion and date on it. Keep them together, protect them. There shouldn’t be too many; sort through them every few years and separate the events that remain genuinely important from those that were but no longer are. You know the difference. Throw the rest out.
When you are very old, very sick, or sure there’s not much time left to live, put them together and burn them. The marriage of sticks.
“Do not fall in love with people like me
We will take you to
Museums and parks
And kiss you in every beautiful place
So that you can
Never go back
Without tasting us
Like blood in your mouth.”—Unknown (via interitio)