A Requiem Of Sorts
Hauling the boxes of her history out to the garage, I pause long enough to drop the heavy load on the concrete floor. I listened to the resounding “whump” and then headed back in for the next load. Every little nook and cranny of her life is now exposed in a trail of artifacts that produce an illustrated map of the entire history of her mind. Piles of used postage stamps stuffed into the drawers of a hundred-year-old sewing machine along with notes and letters, piles of sewing fabric, photos of family, all nestle in one box like so many days of so many calendars all randomly jumbled into one box of life. To me it’s a confused refection of a once orderly plan. Its difficult for my wife as it’s her history that is being parted out as well. Something as simple as a dishtowel now has the power to evoke tears; a yellowed and once precious Kodachrome slide that somehow escaped the photo box now lies on the basement floor with its reversed image carrying neither meaning no