My friend “Janet” is writing a Commemorative Speech – about something gone, but not forgotten.
So she’s remembering those school handouts in purple aromatic ink. If you sniffed just right, we always heard, the chemicals would make you high.
She also thinks about necking. Does anyone “get to second base” anymore?
Eventually she writes about abandoned mailboxes by the side of the road. They’re rusted and crumpled. Raccoons pee in them.
But Janet waxes nostalgic. Those metal cocoons once held sweet valentines (“Love, love me do”). They stored anonymous evaluations (“You stink”).
They hung on to Dear John letters – in which somebody dumped somebody and sometimes said why. (“My family hates you,” Juliet might have written to Romeo. “Stop stalking me already!”)
Now sweethearts ghost each other, disappearing without a word. Maybe they can’t write cursive?
I also wonder about “waxing” nostalgic. Do we wax any other emotions? We wax enthusiastic, but do we wax dolorous? Or malicious?
You can go to a shop to wax your surfboard, but who waxes your memories?
You always smell the ink. And the raccoons.
