Author: Jaevn Morris PM
can tell you a lot about a person.Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Words: 679 - Reviews: 1 - Favs: 1 - Published: 01-31-10 - Status: Complete - id: 2769908
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
They say you can tell a lot about a person from their belongings.
I guess I wouldn't know, though.
I dump my bags on the floor and look around.
It's been forever since I've been here, but I still know where every object lies, covered with dust and memories.
In the far corner, the closet with its secrets tucked away in darkness.
Boxes of beanie babies and comic books, kept for some sentimental reason long forgotten.
A few articles of clothing left behind in the haste to get away.
Puzzle boxes lying on the ground amid the layers of dust and cobwebs.
There's a cedar chest under the window, seen through a haze of shining dust particles catching light from the fading sun.
Inside, blankets kept for when the temperatures drop – I forgot how cold it gets here.
Some old drawings from the old days, full of memories of life and laughter.
The dismantled bow and its complementary arrows lying at the bottom, reeking of disuse.
The big glass jar I found and had been putting loose change in since I was a kid.
I unscrew it but there's nothing inside.
My eyes sweep over to the desk, containers of pencils and pens with designs on them, that were never used because they looked "cool".
The old notebook full of secret poems and stories about fantastical lands and faraway dreams.
The flashlight used for late-night reading, long after my parents were in bed.
A candle. I pick up the box of matches lying near it and strike – I hold the lighted flame to the wax-coated wick and watch it flicker for a while, but the draft blows it out.
The drawers down the side of the desk tell their own story.
Bottles of nail polish, dried up without having been opened.
The mark of an artist – dozens of colored pencils, sharpies, crayons, pastels and markers in neat containers.
Literary magazines, years of them, stacked one on top of the other. I leaf through them – 1992, 1993, 1994...all the way to 2002.
I cross to the bookshelf, a painful reminder of the passage of time.
All the childish books that I liked lined up in alphabetical order with the classics by Jane Austen and Shakespeare.
Empty space at the top – what did I keep up there? My textbooks, I remember, and a Bible my dad tried to get me to read.
It's gone now, likely stored in some box in the basement or thrown away.
I sit and lean against my dresser, full of clothes far too small for me.
On top, my jewelry box, crammed with cheap bracelets and necklaces, some of which – I can't recall which ones – I made.
The little velvet box I put my glasses on; I think I hid money in it.
The lamp that I begged my mother to buy ten or fifteen years ago, now falling apart.
I flick the switch: the bulb is burned out.
I find my old CD case. Inside are my old favorite bands: Muse, Nightwish, Skillet, Within Temptation.... So many nights spent listening in the dark, wondering when I was going to fall asleep.
They're covered with scratches from being played over and over.
I'm just about to unpack when I hear the doorbell. It must be my sister – she would have been the next to hear the news.
I walk quickly down the stairs,wanting to end the spell of the past that took hold of me from the moment I stepped into the house where I grew up.
She walks in and starts talking about the funeral plans, but I can't hear her over the roar of the memories sweeping back into my head.
Later, I lie in my old bed, staring at the ceiling like I used to, thinking about anything that comes to my mind.
I put one of my favorite CDs in the CD player – First Love by Yiruma.
The sweet, soft silence envelopes me, and I finally fall asleep.