Alright. I put everything I think on this table in front of me. Rusty trinkets, the collection of a drunk sailor, too old to be on a ship, too tired to drink. Memories, fears, regrets and a few pieces of hope. I put them all on this table here. I gaze at them fondly although they clutter my head. Some of them are of you.
I sit at the table, whiskey in hand. I can't seem to bring it to my lips, but I don't want to put it down. I can't let go of it all. I wanted there to be order, I wanted a linear life. I wanted to live my life, not imagine it. But here I am starring at all this junk I've been carrying around for so long. I am Ms. Havisham.
I thought all these things kept me safe. Kept me centered. Kept me company. But the weight of it is becoming unbearable.
I imagine sweeping my arm across the table, watching them all clatter on the ground. All cracking with satisfaction like Christmas tree ornaments, the glass balls that dangle so gently from the branches. Each year I brake at least one of them. That's what I imagine it sounding like. But I won't do it.
I go to the back of the bar and dig out a flattened box, and bring it back to life with some masking tape. I wrap each memory, fear, regret, hope, and even those thoughts of you, one by one in old yellowed newspaper, and place them in the box. I walk home slowly with my package, holding it close to my chest with both arms. The keys open the gate, and then the front door, and I walk straight to the closet where the vacuum and coats live. The top shelf has just enough room for the box, and I set it up there, reaching on my tip toes. I stare at it, and it almost looks sad.
I step back, and still watching it, I close the closet door slowly until the knob clicks. I can't seem to walk away just yet. This is when I decided to live.
