So there were actually
four boxes in total: big
rubbery tubs like the
ones you can get at
Boxes & Bins, ya
know? The size
a kid could
comfortably
take a bath in.
Four big boxes,
each overfilled
with all kinds of
junk, most of it flat
and made of paper,
like magazines, cards
of all kinds (christmas cards,
birthday cards, anniversary
cards, sympathy cards, get
well cards), reams of letters,
of actual mail, from back in
the days before email, sticky
notes, notepads, ripped out
pages, sheets with grids,
sheets with lines, sheets
with bunches of funny
designs, and plain
sheets of copy
paper, some
times stapled or
clipped in slews,
a few of these blank,
but most of them covered
in ink or magic marker with
things like phone numbers,
names, dates, dollar amounts,
reminders, to do lists, cryptic
hand-written scribbles that
could only be partially
deciphered, some of
the scrawl having
been rendered
illegible by any of
a long list of disasters,
natural and otherwise,
like being smudged
almost into abstraction
by spilled cups of coffee
or by spilled glasses (or
even bottles) of wine,
or by being drowned
by a torrent of teardrops
during a long and particularly
gut-wrenching night, or by
actual rain, from an
abrupt and literal
thundershower one
afternoon which, as I
recall (as if it were only
yesterday), caught me
unawares after I fell
asleep in a park in
Ann Arbor, Michigan
one otherwise gorgeous
afternoon, and there
was also the stack
of homework I
left on the front
porch-swing which,
much to my horror when
I found them the next morning,
were soaked and scattered amongst
the rich, dewy grass that grew
such a dark green between
the porch and my
grandmother’s
flower-bed.
Those were
the days before I
left all of the weather
behind and moved here,
to San Francisco, where the
boxes and I took up the longest
of our various residencies, inside the
comfort of an apartment we shared near
the top of Nob Hill for over thirteen years
solid. There would only be one more
makeshift home before we’d
part ways for good,
those four boxes
of junk and me.
in ink or magic marker with
things like phone numbers,
names, dates, dollar amounts,
reminders, to do lists, cryptic
hand-written scribbles that
could only be partially
deciphered, some of
the scrawl having
been rendered
illegible by any of
a long list of disasters,
natural and otherwise,
like being smudged
almost into abstraction
by spilled cups of coffee
or by spilled glasses (or
even bottles) of wine,
or by being drowned
by a torrent of teardrops
during a long and particularly
gut-wrenching night, or by
actual rain, from an
abrupt and literal
thundershower one
afternoon which, as I
recall (as if it were only
yesterday), caught me
unawares after I fell
asleep in a park in
Ann Arbor, Michigan
one otherwise gorgeous
afternoon, and there
was also the stack
of homework I
left on the front
porch-swing which,
much to my horror when
I found them the next morning,
were soaked and scattered amongst
the rich, dewy grass that grew
such a dark green between
the porch and my
grandmother’s
flower-bed.
Those were
the days before I
left all of the weather
behind and moved here,
to San Francisco, where the
boxes and I took up the longest
of our various residencies, inside the
comfort of an apartment we shared near
the top of Nob Hill for over thirteen years
solid. There would only be one more
makeshift home before we’d
part ways for good,
those four boxes
of junk and me.
