I Don't Look Anymore

Every scrap of paper she doodled on, or wrote a few sentences on, every sketch, every story, every poem. I gathered them all in a big box, closed them in, all her dreams and hopes and plans for her life. Worlds died with her, but her thoughts aren't gone; they reside in a box in the back of my closet. Half-told stories, lost characters; if I throw out that box, the last things in her mind will be gone. Maybe when I die, someone will find the box, and wonder who she was. Then they'll finally throw it all away.

green tea

I don't have anything in my closet, I thought. Old dolls, bedding. But that's not true.

There are two boxes. One contains three-fourths of a tea set, the shards of the fourth cup carefully wreathed in cotton against the day of its repair. One contains my wedding kimonos. I visualize a future home where I proudly display my heritage, but today, they are in the closet.

What is it that makes me hide so carefully the last few vestiges of my achingly distant culture? Will your prejudice be less if somehow I manage not to show a glimpse of foreignness?

Tep, please tell me you had no idea such EXCELLENT drabbles would come of this topic...

'Cause otherwise? You're a total genius!

Loving all these drabbles!

Boxed In

There are so many of them, I can’t keep count of them anymore: wooden ones, cardboard ones, papier mache ones, lacquered ones, silver ones, porcelain ones, stained glass ones, wicker ones, fabric-covered ones, ones that have music boxes, ones that get opened frequently, ones that are still taped shut from the move out from California in 1993. So many shapes and sizes, colors and origins. Some of them have jewelry, some old make-up, some have coins in them, one even has my daughter’s baby teeth in it. They multiply with the years, creep out of my closet, box me in.

drabble: the box in the back of the closet

Sorting through the detritus of my grandmother's estate, I find the box with the teddy bears. Both are musty and dusty and dull with cobwebs that have been collecting for decades. Dad's bear is badly worn, missing an eye and an ear, its stubby tail only half attached, legacy of four brothers living in the same bedroom. My bear is still intact, softer and fuzzier, still smiling gently, a memory of comfort during my parents’ split.

I can't bring myself to throw them out, so now the two bears have a new box in the back of a new closet. There won't be a third.

Tep, please tell me you had no idea such EXCELLENT drabbles would come of this topic...

Well, I know the quality of writing all y'all produce in general. Hell, I bet I could make bellybutton lint a topic and the drabbles would kick ass.

And then, I was trying to be organized and put shit away last weekend, which involved throwing the Guest Linens (from SA's visit) in the back of the closet when they came out of the dryer, and a shoebox on the floor of the closet caught my eye. Now, all this particular shoebox held was sandals I had worn in a wedding, but I hadn't realized the box got shoved over to that side of the closet; I thought I had taken all the ill-chosen wedding shoes to Goodwill back in January.

And it just got me thinking along the lines of "What's in the box at the back of YOUR closet?"

OK, I can't claim to stick to the 100 word limit because I don't count, but anyway...

Gifts

It was a special occasion to explore my mom's closet. Behind her dresses and shoes, which I can still smell, was the box. Covered in 70s orange floral contact paper, it was a treasure box to us in New Mexico. A plastic thermos smelling of salt, shells from shores we'd never seen. A cowrie shell before we knew what to call it was the coveted piece, to wrap our tiny fingers around, tuck into. Shells I still cannot name. Creatures only seen in National Geographic. The plastic lobster claw bottle opener from Maine, the handmade wine corkscrew with my father's name burnt into it by his grandfather. A hand carved russian dancing bear older than they, the swedish kroner, the Japanese bills. The musty stuffed dog of unknown origins, a terrier, I think. The leather horse on wheels, dinged with age, squeaking wheels, stories of Sweden. All carrying scents of a wooden age, scents that made us feel safe and loved and special. Scents from all over the world. Carried for decades all across the continent, from beyond the continent.

Did they know they were giving us the gift of flight? Of explorations?

I have my own box now.

That's wonderful, sarameg. Made me smile.

And I can't believe I totally left out the heavy old black dial phone! The one made of ...that stuff. Mid century, pre-plastic. Can't recall what it is called. Thermolite? I know the smell though. They still have it. Some of the other stuff is gone. I loved getting access to that box.

I swear, I do these drabbles to recover buried memories. (ooh, the spool wheeled trains! The poured iron dog figures and cannon replicas and lead deposit from my grandpa's shop. This stuff was largely from my parents' childhood and travels. Pure gold.)

The one made of ...that stuff. Mid century, pre-plastic. Can't recall what it is called.

Bakelite.