the valves shift open

Yesterday my mom said she had "some of my stuff" to drop off with me; I said "okay." She then arrived with a very large tupperware container which held almost all of my adolescent miscellanea. I am having a strange time confronting this box, each time opening it and recovering some object that scratches the waxen coating off of memories I've long daubed into obscurity. The object right on top was the last birthday card I ever received from my grandma, who died right before my birthday the next year, telling me how life keeps getting better once you go to college. So, I started crying, and then became very self-aware of my crying, questioning just how crocadilean the tears may be, questioning my questioning. I feel as though a lot of people have a kindred ancestor and for all our differences I have, since her death, since learning about the nervous breakdowns and electro-shock, felt that she is/was mine. That it seems like half of my household possessions once belonged to her only furthers this. The bed she died in is in my guest room. I think of her often, in small quiet rituals; it started soon after her death with the crossing myself whenever I got a "bad thought" going that wouldn't shut up, but this became awkward and troublesome around others so I taught myself to only do it when I touch salt, but now whenever I touch salt I have to do it,
this wasn't supposed to be about this, I've probably talked about this before, so let's move on,

What does one do with sentimental trinkets; the secret collection of anime on VHS; letters from friends that are overly dramatic in that teenage way, when you're carving out your capacity but haven't experienced shit. We used to be so fatalistic.
I have noticed recently that I don't care to use question marks. It is not that I dislike them or am so sure of myself that nothing I say is a question; it is as though they are too cloying and too big at the end of the sentence, taking up too much attention like the riddler symbol, dominating,
that's not what this is about,

The thing is, this is the stuff that I decided to keep after the Great Post-High School Purge, during which threw away so many things, books filled with crappy drawing and you know the trinkets, little toys given ironic significance by the rare friend. Yet I still seem to have kept so much. Stiffened old t-shirts with The Strokes and Incubus logos on them that I'd never put on again. So many ill-fitting bras. Ugly beaded necklaces that were popular in the 90s. Tiny slips of paper with the phone numbers of girls I knew in the hospital.

My co-worker just walked by and asked what I was doing, then laughed at my answer ("... journaling." [i knew i'd been caught]). I don't know why I'm having this sudden outpouring. It is the box that I blame. I was feeling odd and unwell but now I'm feeling pretty foxy, pretty ready, you wouldn't believe what I can handle (anything), la la laaaa fuck it.