asklepiades (asklepiades) wrote,

"What was in the boxes?
And why did they go away unopened?

the boxes were filled with important memories--all the things we were going to be able to keep. the flowers, the scents, the taste of the air in these parts--all that we were leaving behind.

i had woken up that day understanding what was going on. pat-pat, down the hall, bedslippers slapping oddly against the cold linoleum, too blase to lift my feet all the way of the ground.
kitchen. glass. juice. drink, and out the window the clouds greet me with a friendly 'hello'; they'll be coming too. further down to earth, shrubs, the lattice and the rose. shaded from the sun.

I frown for the first time.

pat-pat, down the hall. foreign sounds, bustle-bustle.
heavy footsteps in the foryer taking the furniture out.

i run my hand over holes in the sheetrock
that will never be filled again.

And in this moment everything is everything, and i know that life is a continual cycle of activity. i feel the world is very large, in a good way. something is something, and maybe soon it will be my something. complex pictures spin through my head, interlocking and finally making some sense. tired and in my robe i tossed around myself, i come to terms with the dynamic nature of reality. my photos, friends, packed away, wrapped delicately in newspaper and
little plastic bubbles that go 'snap'.

somewhere in me rages a helplessness
a 'i hate my life, out of control'. and there's a me that is glad to be myself.

I stay like this for a little while, the bustle and rustle of commotion carrying on at it's own pace. pushing past me. boxes sealed up tight headed towards my new home. though, i am not entirely seperate from it all, pehaps even a part of it. caught up in everything.

and then it's time. my juice is gone. glass in the sink, pat-pat, pat-pat-pat, up stairs.
to the room on the very end. of the hall, by the furnace. by the attic. the one i'd lie about, saying, 'my parents dont want friends in there'. who's walls were wet the night that grandma went to be with God; where i carved out in crooked letters my first brush with love with daddy's stolen pocketknive.

it's empty, now, the last things i boxed away. but these walls won't be coming with me, and that's important.
somewhere in my sudden discovery of my place within the big vast world i know its urgent. very pressing. this place.
how rapidly the walls contract as i exhale; so much i'll leave behind, and at what cost? i have but hours now to take it in and take it with me. my eyes quiver and dart around, touching, feeling, tasting. fingers run along old wooden walls, absorbing. i need this place.

no sun shone in the little window and i curled up into a ball. my mind wandered to the lattice out the kitchen window with the rose. arms wrapped tight around me i cried for both the future and the past. i cried for who i was and who i wasn't, and who maybe i would have to be. i cried as a piece of everything--confused, excited; scared.

and then the clouds moved on. a little bit of sun made it through the curtain and the boxes and the trucks and I, we went.

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