Last night she discovered the purple shoebox under my bed.
She presented its contents, alongside her transparent contempt, in the barren field of hardwood flooring between us.
With growing indifference, she pushed my possessions aside, surveying each with an intense premonition.
She found:
1. An expanse of tangled tangerine crochet work, with the ends left untied.
Or, in other words, a homage to our once-manicured fingers, chipped on impact.
Twisted threads bear our remorse of a thousand visits of idle disengagement.
So I am a collector of unfulfilled treasures.
and she does not understand the
guilt of my stilted surrender.
2. A bundle of birthday cards, each identical, with the exception of the year signed in indiscernible pink cursive.
Or, in other words, recorded lapses of our intersecting impermanence.
Warped cardstock preserves fading ink and faded affection.
So I am a collector of store-bought sentiments.
and she does not understand the
guilt of my hurried admirations.
3. A silky sleeveless blouse, three sizes too big, punctured by futile attempts at tailoring.
Or, in other words, a reminder that the silhouettes of our shadows were never meant to coincide.
Ripped hems characterize the wonders of our iterative alterations.
So I am a collector of things that have never been meant for me.
and she does not understand the
guilt of my destructive allegiance.
4. A collection of rusted nickels and dimes inherited from grandmother’s now empty pocket.
Or, in other words, a proxy for the weight of her companionship, fashioned in zinc and copper.
Spare change rattles echoes of our sacrificial rites of womanhood.
So I am a collector of the most mundane of heirlooms.
and she does not understand the
guilt of my captive nostalgia.
5. Her used ceramic mug, embellished with the elegant scratches from the morning teaspoon.
Or, in other words, an artifact to solidify our inability to organize a succinct mourning routine.
The uneven chip of the rim recalls the gap in her crescent-shaped smile.
So I am the curator of the archive of our human condition.
and she now understands
that I am lamenting our existence before it ends.
so my mother finally bears the
tribulations of her own teenage hoarder.