novembre ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- apparently i was by the garage when it happened, but i don't remember that. when i was a baby a van lost control coming down the hill behind our house; it flipped and landed on the garage. my parents used the insurance money to patch the walls, carpet the cement floor, make a window seat where there used to be garage door. dad left one part for storage, had it open up on the side of the house. the side room. our little parentheses of a garage. the nook dad stuffed full of everything the rest of us tried to throw away. twenty years ago it was dirty, dad never shut its door. a few times robert disappeared into the side room looking for something and he'd emerge with fleas crawling up his shins. there were termites, rats, rats that ate through plastic in order to get to piles of paper and old toys. last time i visited my parents' house, mom and i pawed through the side room looking for extra dishes for my new apartment, ducking as piles dislodged over our heads. so that's where the 8 track player went. behind a broken surfboard i found an old suitcase i filled with letters you wrote me ten years ago. i didn't open it, i remember exactly what is inside: letters without envelopes, mismatched pages and ripped snapshots. i can almost remember what every letter is about, too. i don't need my own side room, i'll leave that family legacy for the ghosts of the rats to guard. i've got an elephant's memory if i focus. 11:52 pm - 05.14.04 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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