Corner Pieces
Past me has done silly things to myself in the present. I swear it's unintentional but I have a habit of stuffing notes away into my jacket pockets or an old bag or knife roll.
I've found things like old receipts or a very old pack of cigarettes. The cigarettes make me miss my delinquency and a so-sure-of-myself everlasting streak of rebellion.
I find aching things too-- like a good bye letter I think opened and closed so much that the creases were falling apart. It was hidden away in a jacket that I subconsciously swore I would never wear again. I found the jacket in a closet that has more of my parents' clothes than mine now, in a house that feels haunted by memories of my childhood.
I think memories can feel like ghosts. And writing about memories as I get older feels like describing something I can only see from the corner of my eye. Look too close and I'm fixating, too far and it slips away like a dream.
Every now and then, I can coax one into form. I'm luckier if I'm able to write about it. From the unlit corners of my mind, I can find some sweet memories. (God, I wish I had my dad's skill as a chronicler).
Those memories are delightful corners piece pastries with browned edges that are a right bittersweet.























