Spring Cleaning

They call it “Spring Cleaning,” but I’ve been at this for the better part of a decade. I had so much clutter built up from my entire life and my parent’s that I did not know what to do with it. I am almost finished now, though. Just half the basement, and I will be done with this.

I threw out so much garbage: picture books, year books, text books, cd’s, tapes and what-have-you. So much clutter I kept for idiotic sentimentality. I don’t read those picture books anymore; I haven’t read them since I was 12. I don’t plan to get in touch with anyone from high school. I don’t listen to that music. I don’t watch those movies. I don’t need those trinkets, ornaments, etc.

I only kept what I needed, and I don’t need much anymore. I kept track of the essentials, and put it all in its place. Everything else is a luxury. Anything I did not have room for was discarded. At first it was hard, but when I stopped thinking about it, it got easier, much easier.

I kept putting it off for later. “I’m tired after work.” “I’ll get around to it this weekend.” The excuses were endless. Now, I have time. If nothing else, I have free time. That much, I do have.

My knees ache every time it starts raining like this outside, and that doesn’t make it any easier, but I’m almost finished. I have to finish this. The sooner I finish, the sooner I can focus on anything else and it doesn’t matter if I stay up, I don’t have a set schedule anymore.

That large, gray, box in the corner made a clattering sound and that’s frustrating me already. I might just toss it without looking at it. Well, it might have my multimeter, or my other electrical tools.

Inside it I find a graveyard. Broken bits of toys and other figurines. All garbage. I dig my hand into the pieces and check a layer underneath. Suddenly a flash of red with yellow lines catches my eye. My hand stops, so does my breathing, my everything stops. Carefully I pull it out of the other wreckage and take a long look at it. I turn it upside down, sideways and handle it with the delicate care movie archeologists regard antiques. It’s an airplane, well, it’s a transformer. I begin twisting, folding the joints entirely from memory as my hands move on their own and see him face-to-face. I stand on my palm and he holds his position, standing upright like a soldier.

Starscream. The name flashes in my mind, although it’s not entirely accurate. My father made him from this very box. I remember, I must have been in kindergarten when my father took me to the swap meet and saw this box of broken bits of toys and figures and bought it. He let me look through the pile of pieces and I remember being mad that there were only a few complete ones, but none were a plane. I wanted a jet, I told him, like the one with a funny voice from the cartoons. As he looked through the box, he picked out all of the odds and bits that were the same jet plane, same mold but differently colored plastic. He asked me what color I wanted it, and I told him I wanted it red, but with lightning. My father took the pieces and managed to put one together, guided by how he saw the others were, and good thing too, because he wasn’t going to be able to put another one together, since a couple of parts were not repeated, or complete. I remember we had one good windscreen, since all the others were broken to bits. Some of the joints were loose and he managed to tighten them with silicone from his glue gun and testing them now, they’re still holding. How did he do that? Once it was finished, he painted red with his acrylic paints. As he painted it, he kept asking me, “What about here?” “How about this one?” “the same on the other side?” He wanted to make sure I liked it. After high school, I did not see him much. I was so ungrateful. Some of the original paint was chipped and stickers were missing, so he added that detail as he went and removed the other stickers so it would look even. For almost six years. Once he finished painting it, he started drawing the lightning pattern on paper and asking me which one I liked. He finished the detailing and I was finally allowed to have it. I played with it nonstop, day and night. This was my toy, not just a toy, it was a toy made specifically for me and I loved it. It wasn’t until I needed him that I returned his calls. I played with it alone, I played with it with my friends, I played with it any time anytime and anywhere other than at school. Even though I didn’t admit it to anyone, this was my treasure. At first, I visited him almost every weekend. My world almost revolved entirely around this toy, even into my high school years. I could not stop thinking about flying. Then I just stopped. I wanted to join the armed forces and pilot an F-15 Eagle, just like Sarscream. Soar through the sky with reckless abandon. Then I wanted to fly stunt planes, then I settled for commercial airlines, then I ended up doing nothing. I tried to emulate his parenting style, be just as good to my kids as he was to me. Then, one day, I just put it in the box. For no reason at all, I just put it away and shoved it into a corner of the basement during one of my visits. Was I embarrassed? I can’t even remember why I did it. And now, it’s in my hands again. I have no use for it. It serves no practical need. Not him, nor the rest of the box.

I should throw it out, just like all the other things I don’t need anymore. I should open up the space here. Y… you never know when you might need a cubic yard in the basement. I… I… I can’t. I can’t get rid of it. I can’t let go of this, for some reason. I can’t find it in myself to justify keeping it, but I cannot part ways with it. Not again. Not like this.

Perhaps I can gift it to someone else who may appreciate it like I did back then.

It’s been a long time since I talk to my kid. Maybe his kid will like it. I really hope so. I really do.