underneath my bed, lies the mementos of my sister’s childhood.
she is only going on eleven, but she is soon entering her second skin
like a cobra, slithering from one scales into the next
but she does not let go quite yet
instead
she picks up the stuffy, the unicorn paraphernalia
and tosses it under my bed.
not far
just across the hall
my bed, the unlikely graveyard for all the things we don’t want to say goodbye to yet
the
don’t let me go yet
the wait
but don’t you remember
the smells like laundry detergent
i see the irony
how we fit into the same circle
how all her hand me downs are my
don’t let me go yet
i had a much easier time dismantling the cogs of my own childhood
they were simply transferred to her
in their last stages they are coming back to me
hot potato
like a cell, dividing, dividing
back and forth, back and forth
enter g0
apoptosis
my nose twitches as i encounter dust
digging deeper
my arm, a straggler in the great canyon of all the things i couldn’t manage to pick on the floor
i am almost eighteen years old
but instead of looking ahead, i find myself peering back,
down
at my stuffed animals that are making a return-trip
a final hurrah at my feet
the magnetic dolls
the trolls
the paper houses that i fell into for hours
hours that meant different things then
hours that couldn’t be capitalized upon
hours where i spoke to no one
and lived inside my own head
i need to get reacquainted with analogue thoughts
but that still
feels like yet another item on my to-list
along with these toys on the ground
i sink down
how long has it been since i’ve sat on the floor like this
achieved equilibrium with my body
where is the time going?
what is time
if memories cannot be stacked and put into bookshelves
ordered alphabetically
retrieved in increments
these toys are allowances for a time i no longer have
my time is now investments
i am almost 18 years old
i am soon entering my second skin
like a cobra slithering from one scales to the next
but somehow this last skin is difficult to shed
it clings
like the fog that hovers stubbornly
like it hadn’t quite mastered evaporation yet
at heart, i am hoarder
my cabinets are all altars
to nostalgia
i like trinkets
and tchotchkes
and all those blankets, worn into softness
can’t you see how stories are embroidered
into the cloth
see, my sister chose the right refuge
because i am hesitant to let boats leave my shore
i am a memory-laden scylla of greek mythology
for so long, i have been an old soul
in a young body
looking forward and backwards at the same time
this is why the last scene of toy story
makes me sob
“promise, you’ll take good care of him”
can you promise that you’ll be back again
that goodbyes are always temporary
never permanent
that i am peter pan’s lost girl
sitting among the lost toys
under my bed is a newly anointed museum
preserved
i have not cleaned it out quite yet
there is still time
isn’t there?
(winner of a Gold Key at the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards)