I remember lying in the bed and the dog would lay there between us until one of us moved in some way that disrupted him and then he would freak out and climb off the bed to go sleep on the floor. I remember that apartment so well. The hardwood floors and the bathroom tiles. The little cubby holes above the hallway.The thick coats of white paint that covered everything. I remember building the tables and the shelf in the kitchen and making pancakes and eating cottage cheese with cut up pickles. I remember it all so well and they’re all just memories I’ve packed up in the back of my mind. They’re books I’ve stacked in the corner. I walk past them and recognize their spines, but I never open them because I can’t stomach the stories. All those stories. That apartment. That time. So wild. So intense. The laughing. The arguing. The fighting. The screaming. The silence. The sleeping on the floor against the couch as some attempt to find comfort in some small space where my feelings wouldn’t get smashed. The hours long walks alone in the dark. Up seventh to Broadway all the way to 102nd. Over to fifth and up to the park and back again. Walking alone in the rain to give you space and some time to cool off when I was the one who was cold and had to buy a jacket. I thought the space was helpful and loving and kind, but it only widened the gap. Hindsight is incredible. Letting go is the real key though. These books. These memories. They are a part of my experience and as such deserve their place on the shelf. They don’t need to be read again. They need to be acknowledged for what they are and that is the past. They ought to end up in some Tiny Free Library. They are not throw aways, but rather they are text books to be given away to those that need them. They are my notes and the professor has said that they will be allowed. They are the past. Not the present. Not now. Not tomorrow. It was a whirlwind. A tornado. A roller coaster. It was a lot of things. It was. It isn’t is. These books are a mirror. An opportunity to look at myself and see where I am hanging on and from what I should be letting go. These books offer a reflection that defines my features and my beauty and my strengths. These books and this mirror show me my shortcomings and like red ink on the rough draft of my final paper they show me the areas in which I can improve. These books.