Bits and pieces, odds and ends
Junk and clutter, the sacred and profane,
The road map to my house
Is alive with throbbing veins
Follow the trail of shoes and books
The chipped walls ripened with age.
A left from the coiled wires
& lavender-cupped underwire,
Go past the broken mirror and half-seeing eyes
Toss your coffee cup into the stainless sink
Pay homage to a faith-less god.
Here is a container full of Synecdoche
A cartload of rusted archives
Those given away or hidden, rest
Within the cartography of my mind.
The shutter captured our moments
Things froze on the click
We all get ready for the frame, to
share space on painted bricks
The things that we so lovingly and ordinarily pick and fill the house with are really our tombstones, surviving long after we pass away. They blend into our routines, define our body’s trajectories around them and mute into the foreground of the scenery – overlooked yet a necessary stopgap that completes the picture of home. They are not remembered; they become part of the living, as us.
Without the laundry-bag-school medals-shrine-of-Christ-the-junked-computer, we become merely names who own walls and claim possessions. The knick-knacks are a memory sieve, full of drama waiting to be retold to the stranger, the guest who wonders about its significance. It’s a signifier of our stories. We are, these are. Don’t take away one without the other. Incompleteness is what our memories are known for. Let the objects be present to share their view.