Handle with care.


We’re at the dawn of a new home. Let’s go. We’re ready to box it off, we’re on the move, let’s bubble wrap this up.

We magic mark “kitchen” on the cardboard. We roll dishcloths around utensils that bear the effects of time and turmeric. We have nothing to cook with. We left the old pots and pans to the son and it’s the ex that had the “top of the line” in stainless. We’ll have to get equipped. We’re a middle aged woman that has to pheonix herself. How cliché.

Our books bust the loosely bonded bottom of the bin. We alternate with stockings and panties to make it lighter. Madame Bovary is alongside Zarathustra eyeing Marilyn. We have way too many books on the pill poppin’ pin up. Paul Auster seems to judge us. Come on, Paul! Come join Anaïs Nin she’ll show you a good time.

Our unclassified paperwork crumples against the tax returns of recent years. Each receipt and invoice proves a certain irresponsibility with money. It’s not that true, would reassure our mom. It is rather quite true, would rectify our accountant. We empty the lot in one swift motion. We’ll get office organized in our new life. But it is to be feared that clutter will follow us until death.

We make the mistake of flipping through an old photo albums. Smiles with missing teeth and protruding ears. Memories of the deceased, places now dynamited, loves before tears. Pictures of our child, rosy cheeks, arms extended towards its reason to live: us. Our baby … The desire of a sob tickles the nose. Quick, we close the flap before nostalgia compresses our throat with its ruthless hands.

We stack video games on the console for future moments of nothing at all. We hesitate with the old DVD’s. We never watch them, anymore. We’re surprised how little music we own. It was always the others who decided of our soundtrack. In our new nest, we will choose to tap our feet to the beat of our own drum.

We persist on bringing clothes that fitted ages ago or never did. We throw in the granny jacket with the whory skirt. A row of pearl offered for our wedding strangles a dusty garter belt. Swarovski crystals sparkle between oils and useless creams. We’re huddling the fuck-me shoes and the sneakers, the blue jeans and the little black dresses.

We’re piling frames that have been around for too long and no longer mean anything to us. Sheets of newspapers on useless trinkets, an old typewriter, a baby shoe of one of our fathers, some of both their ashes, a mold of the fist of our newborn boy, our coat of arms, a Capodimonte, some stuff, some junk, some knicks and some knacks.

There. Our whole existence reduced to a cardboard tower at the center of the room. A slight melancholy sigh at the edge of our lashes. We have to drink …

Let us work on a hangover. Yes. Let’s get numb.

But the wallet remains unfound. Not in the bags, not in the pockets or between the cushions of the couch. Where can it…? We glance at the stack of beige cubes circled with tape.

And then begins the cursing of the saints, an X-Acto knife in hand…



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