Thursday, December 31, 2009
A history of button collecting, of corrugated cardboard living. Scalloped edged photographs in newspaper lined drawers. Old birthday cards from aunts who remain steadfastly proud. One hundred in each grandparent card, then singular grandparent, and then no more cards. A stuffed toy the pudgy hand of memory clings to, matted from year of soothing me through nightmares. Night opens to lamplight where nightlights once peeked through the open door to crack the abyss of the floor harbours a slithering nothing ready to brush against my feet if I get up to go to the bathroom. Only the yellow light warm pours in to stain the walls with my mother’s lullaby that I will be watched by angels to purify the room and burn the terror from the walls.