In my house I pit one item against another, what will stay, what will go, and what determines the victor.
Should my Great Grandmothers old dish towel trump the story I wrote when I was 8?
A death match of memories and emotions in which only the tenderest survive. Those objects stored away that I can’t bear to look at, to bring into the light of day, the old love letters mummified in the writers undershirt, no longer smelling of the body they came from.
A note in my mothers hand writing, a wrinkled page full of pre-pubescent girl scrawl, me and my best friend as we predicted the boy we would married and there for practiced what our new last names would be.
The house is full of it. Memories, ideas, emotions, reminders.