It's a bit hopeful, Deb. I'm not quite there yet, but I don't do it the way I used to.

I've known cats who like to put things in shoes. . .

Mine don't chew up shoes-- their weapon of choice against the evil shoe creatures is generally vomit.

I suspect I'll sit back and enjoy everyone else's drabbles on this particular topic. Anything I could write on this one might be too painful, even for me.

OK, trying this drabble thing.

The drywall with its telltale watermarks is gone, but there must have been eighteen inches. And a leak up high in the closet; things I know were up on a shelf are soaked. Shifting the sodden masses to the back door, I give up the game of trying to determine where the ruin ends.

When I find the box marked “Wedding Dress” I’m afraid to open it. I’ll never wear it again, it shouldn’t matter if it’s ruined. I never got around to preservation - the box is just cardboard, labeled with a Sharpie. Somehow, still light, still dry, pristine.

Oh, -t. Ouch.

It's a happy ending. Did I not get that across?

I got the happy. Even the sharpie hadn't been smeared by water - the contents stayed dry.

Oh, I understood that the box (and dress) stayed dry; it's just that the 18-inch line, and the drywall not even being there anymore -- they evoked such destruction.

What’s in my Closet

The box in my closet contains many prized pieces of feedback. Goofy, stern, a love letter or two. I keep them all to replenish the love of self that the world strips away by reminding me I’m not-quite, drifting extended adolescently. Because the words for me Out There have no love, mostly. Cerebral palsy, indigent, mobility impaired, SSI recipient...not things that wake one in the morning or whisper nasty things in her ears. They tell everything about me and nothing, nothing at all. Although I guess you could string out “ quadriplegia” and give it to Kathleen Battle to sing, but nobody would. That’s why I need the frickin’ box, because if I were just what they think I am...I’d turn my face from life. I could live inside it like the junkie lives inside the deadly poetry of her blast, but no...I need it, sometimes. So I guess I’m like an overeater with my box of compliments. Used to feel deprived, on a strict diet, and harshly self-judging, once I give my self-image permission it wants to do nothing but eat, but I need to keep the portions healthy.