August 11, 2020

I am pinning too many hopes on the hall closet

But where else can I craft a more perfect union of the mismatched linens, or fold 
shaggy washcloths into neat squares, or rein in the cacophony of cleansers aimed at 
the perpetual tarnish of the bathroom fixtures? My heart is breaking, or is already
broken. I have been so tentative with optimism, measly with courage. There are days 
it takes all morning to write a single letter, steady the pen on five inches of cardstock, 
the back of an envelope, paw dumbly through a drawer for a stamp. Maybe I am pinning 
too many hopes on the hall closet, but the clutter on the shelves is a small porthole 
of mercy, an inkling of agency and repair. Twenty minutes in and an old wattage flickers,
and then I can’t stopped, emptying the fridge of expired condiments, whipping through
the medicine cabinet, returning the house to that place I remember as home.