I've lost the box of my growing-up pictures.
There's the possibility I might knock over some box somewhere in this process of moving. I might knock over a box and find the secret hole in the floor where this most important of boxes has fallen. Or maybe I will find the story of its disguise. For now, though, I am preparing for a fresh loss of memory.
Saying goodbye to this house. The fruit trees: plum apple fig. The blackberries. The birds. The view from the bedroom. Love. Saying goodbye to this short walk shorter drive. This home of trying so hard. Of leaving. Of staying. Splitting open shrinking down. That hummingbird. The peregrine falcon she insists I did not see. The raccoons the opossum. That mouse last week. The geese (good morning, girls.) The stranglehold brambles. I will bring the hammock with me, but where will it go? Show my bloody fingers and take a deep breath.
I strike the pose. Mug for the camera. Come too. Come with me.
There are so many ways to tell this story.
(journal entry, 2008)