The Threshold
All I had for a while
after 50, were pictorial
reminders of my past.
I won’t say nothing
substantive, there
is substance, even
if but fleeting, hard
to catch, hard to
touch, not hard at all,
really, especially now
that I can barely see.
Is that how it is? It’s
not so bad. I like to
complain, much as I
hate doing so. Is that
how I am? Always
have been. Anyway,
so now that I’ve moved
a few years beyond 50,
have I gained anything
substantive? A couple
of small bookshelves,
a bag to carry some
from here to there
and back. There’s
a bottle of wine on
top of my microwave,
a tiny path separates
the shelf atop which
that microwave sits
and my bed. I built
the shelf less than a
month ago. In this
place 6 years, I’m
always running out
of space. Substance.
There’s nothing living
here but me. And the
stuff I’ve collected since
losing all that came from
before takes less space
than what I had in my
car when I left for college,
I’d guess. But this is the
largest bed I’ve slept in
singly for any amount of
time (the only one, if that
amount of time can be
counted in a couple of
years). And by far the
largest television set.
But still, I’d sit for days
pilfering through these
endless photos. Present
day down to my youth,
and a century further
still, given I had the
wherewithal to scan
them all, even the
ones of my great,
great, great grand
mother. I’ve come
to know the resemb
lances between her
and me, me and her,
even though I never
even laid eyes upon
her, given that we
were never alive at
the same time. I
wonder what all she
lost while still living,
what she had that
might be lost. It’s
odd that I find her
here, know her more
and more, the more
I look at these photo
graphs of photographs
that live inside this
little box, so filled with
non-existent figments
of memorabilia, this
ephemera that keeps
me company, builds a
presence and has me
feeling somewhat alive.
