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.

crap, I have to follow erikaj... very good, btw...

In the last year, I have moved twice. I was mocked twice for the amount of “crap” my helpers drug across state in two directions. Box upon box, marked with cryptic labels: Craft stuff, Supplies, Home Dec.

The boxes landed in the “hall closet,” though 1BRs don’t really have halls. Many are still packed after six months, a fact that would inspire my detractors to wonder loudly if I “ever throw anything away,” if any of them were here.

To others it’s junk. Movie tickets, plastic trinkets, scraps from former projects, photos and papers and… and…

My life: in storage.

Ah, sod it.

dust

I don't remember putting anything away, but then, I don't remember much, these days.

These things I'd thought well-lost? Turns out they're memories, burning like sulfuric acid thrown by a jilted lover. Moments of joy, sitting in dark theatres listening to you play, myself locked tight in your arms, your voice on the phone, across the miles, begging me to leave a light on.

There are no ribbons around these memories, no rose petals scattered with love. There's only me, blinded by pain, scrabbling through the dusty box that is my own heart, looking for discarded moments, desperate to understand.

Loving the drabbles on this topic!!

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.

OK, then, mission accomplished. This hundred word limit, it's hard, but I can already see how it helps refine and focus.