The Musueum of Me
First light streams through the little rectangular window and into my crusty eyes; there's that moment of confusion, where my mind fires, asks where the hell am I?
I'm in the bed I slept in through high school.
The window? My brother, who had this basement room before me, made a shade out of cardboard and a wood-slat blind, to keep the eastern sun out. Maximum darkness.
I kept it.
It's still in the corner. Someone's taken it down, to let a little light shine in.
I stretch and look around. I lie back, put my hands behind my head, hear the sounds of my dad in his bedroom, just over my head. I hear and recognize pops, squeaks and groans the house I grew up in makes.
Went back to Nebraska for the weekend - the drive is just over two hours - and it had a different vibe. Not so much like a museum tour or an archaeology dig, but different somehow. Everything felt compressed, smaller.
I fingered art pieces, favorite books - my nannie, a scrap of my first blanket - yellowed pads of drawing paper where I'd sketched things.
Some items I couldn't find, like a book of poetry I self "published" in junior high, architectual drawings of my dream home I drew in high school, other cherished mementos of my life. I'll find them at some point. Not much has been lost to the ideology of purge.
And there's comfort in that.
KNowing I can always go home to rummage in the museum of me. Where I actually get to touch and feel the exhibits.
I'm in the bed I slept in through high school.
The window? My brother, who had this basement room before me, made a shade out of cardboard and a wood-slat blind, to keep the eastern sun out. Maximum darkness.
I kept it.
It's still in the corner. Someone's taken it down, to let a little light shine in.
I stretch and look around. I lie back, put my hands behind my head, hear the sounds of my dad in his bedroom, just over my head. I hear and recognize pops, squeaks and groans the house I grew up in makes.
Went back to Nebraska for the weekend - the drive is just over two hours - and it had a different vibe. Not so much like a museum tour or an archaeology dig, but different somehow. Everything felt compressed, smaller.
I fingered art pieces, favorite books - my nannie, a scrap of my first blanket - yellowed pads of drawing paper where I'd sketched things.
Some items I couldn't find, like a book of poetry I self "published" in junior high, architectual drawings of my dream home I drew in high school, other cherished mementos of my life. I'll find them at some point. Not much has been lost to the ideology of purge.
And there's comfort in that.
KNowing I can always go home to rummage in the museum of me. Where I actually get to touch and feel the exhibits.
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