things and things

it's the things

my dad said

sitting at our dining room table

i was home from college

and he had been to louisville and back

to help his siblings sort through his mother's home

after her death

my mom and i stood there

dumb

and confused

until i thought 

someone should hug him

and then

oh

me

i should hug him

and i did

and he let me

i was not as familiar 

with my grandma's things as he was

but i can easily conjure

even today

the set of orange juice glasses with matching pitcher

a collection of mugs that hung on her dining room wall

and four lovely figurines in a china cabinet

all of which

carried

a whisper

of her spirit

we weren't thinking of DNA back then

at least i wasn't

but some things

are not exactly dead

after their owner is

it's the things

you know,

because

you think you're fine

you think you've mourned

grieved

dealt

but then

your fingers 

touch

where their fingers

touched

when you,

you know,

fold up a dishcloth

close pages of handwriting

and consider what to do with a worn leather wallet

-- -- --

sure that i could detach emotionally,

i went through my deceased sister's things this week,

as a favor to my parents,

while i was sheltering-in-(their) place

in Ohio

all summer.

it was the least i could do

a task long overdue 

twenty-five years after her death

i went through her things

the things we had saved

we hadn't saved everything

but some things . . .

so

i went through the remaining things

and you know what I found?

you don't want to know.

but you do, right?

like, i'm going to tell you "you don't want to know"

but you know i'm going to tell you

and instead of shutting off your device

you keep reading

in the same way that i keep writing

like prayer

like penance

like . . .

or maybe you're just bored.

in the basement

of my parents' house

there were mostly photos

but there were also

more sentimental things:

- a pair of worn pointe shoes

faded pink satin

- her cheerleading uniforms

which should be easy to part with

but that her embroidered name

is sewn onto some pieces

gottdammitt

you just don't want that 

cursive embroidered name

in a garbage heap

at the curb

at least, i don't

-and a Death Box

(I know there's a better term for it

but sometimes the literal is my favorite choice)

all the contents were to do with her death:

newspaper articles

letters

those small florists' cards 

that come with funeral flower arrangements...

Death Stuff.

- also two nail polishes and one lipstick

what.  the.  FUChsia.

-and then more photos

more?

i thought we'd been through these?

endless, endless snapshots from the 90s

the era after 

cameras and photo development 

were really expensive

but before we harbored our images digitally

and, at a time,

when photo developers were offering

free double prints!!

so

not only endless snapshots

but their doubles

and the doubles

of well-meaning friends

who took photos

of the same subject

at the very same events

from a perspective

at an angle

only different 

by a few degrees.

endless photos

endless denim shirts,

and backward baseball hats,

and Busch Light

and it made me

so 

snapshotting

mad

are you angry?

i am

angry a lot

all the time, in fact

living my anger

riding it out

or

hoping i will ride it out

but it keeps hopping on 

and riding me 

another 1,000 miles

down the road of 2020.

i don't expect 

that my feelings

feel the way your feelings feel,

but do report back...

i'll tell you mine

and then you tell me yours, okay?

my anger feels like 

a sprawling right hook

from my little

middle-age arm

like,

i'm just walking down the street, right?

in my parents' neighborhood

in the middle of

middle america

and my right hook flails wildly

into the air before me.

(i don't think i'm actually physically 

swinging at air,

but if the neighbors told me they witnessed it,

i'd believe them.)

sometimes the heel of my hand tremors 

to shove an invisible someone

off the sidewalk beside me.

it could be anyone.

it could be a human.

or not.

it could be...

oh let's pick an easy one...

covid.

shove

it could be politics, 

the whole idea of politics.

shove

memories.

stupid shit i said

stupid shit i did

shove

shove

shove

the heel of my hand throbs;

it doesn't hurt

because i haven't touched anything

it's just an impulse.

but kind of a violent one.

now

i can't just go around 

shoving and slapping at the air

all the time

i have to,

you know,

function

despite my anger

or with my anger

or 

(my favorite) because of my anger  

rage 

i later called it 

in a text message 

to my friend

yeah, he texted back, 

rage!  

... anger is so 2019.

"i don't even know who i'm mad at,"

i bitched to my mother after sorting through my sister's things.

is it "whom"?

i guess it could be whom but that's not what i said

that's not how i talk in kitchens

am i mad at her?

it's not her fault.

is it the things?

they're just things

the 90s?

yeah, i'm a little mad at the 90s.

i did my own photos next

so no one i love has to do it for me someday when i am dead.

my five year old helped, though

in exchange for a $14.99 

My Little Pony app.

she peeled photo after photo

off of sticky album pages.

she got a cut near her fingernail.

she said, "mama,

you have more memories than anyone!"

nope

just more photos.

when all of my photos were out of the albums

i sent her off with

Rainbow Dash

and Fluttershy

and a pair of headphones plugged into my phone

so, solo,

i could sort

and save

or shed

and shed i did

i was particularly brutal

against the 90s

i went down into the basement,

turned on Spotify's Top 40 hits from 1994

and i didn't just shed,

i shredded those fuckers to bits

-- -- --

in the end

i threw out a lot of pictures

i saved a few

of mine

of my sister's

i sent many of her's

to her friends 

who would appreciate 

the denimandbackwardhatsandcrapbeer,

i could not be the one to throw away 

the whispers

the point shoes

the embroidered polyester cheerleading uniform

the things

but the shreds of my own photos

I put on the curb last night

with their old empty albums,

two nail polishes,

and a stillcan'tbelieveitwasthere tube of lipstick from 1995.

it probably had my sister's DNA on it

(google tells me that 80% of samples provide results)

but 

i do too,

don't i?

(google tells me about 50% is shared between siblings)

so

that's fine

i'll just carry that around 

for the rest of my life

the lipstick can go.

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