Paper Bag


I have a small paper bag on my table that I fill with all things forgotten.

Also, some things I would like to forget. I hope the latter would one day feel like they have found their family, and finally, once and for all, leave me alone.

In this bag is a photograph from Grade six where I look like a boy. My old iPod earphones. A spool of thread from when I was learning to weave. Bobby-pins that I am convinced I have lost.

Also, a pair of socks that I took out last night. I was to wear them with my grey shoes. But then you never came to ring my doorbell, and I never left the house. So I tucked the socks into my paper bag, disappointed.

In this paper bag is a green pen I used when I wrote poetry, its ink dried. There is also a keyring from our first trip together, when I barely knew you, and I later realised, myself.

Also, the parchment I scribbled on on Thursday. A letter I never sent.

In this bag I put a little bit of me and a little bit of you each day.

Hoping to forget.

I am afraid, one day I finally will. And I will wander around my room, and discover a paper bag earthed in mothballs of dust and cobwebs of time. And having forgotten what it was, I will wonder what this is. Perhaps I will turn it upside down, and filter through its contents all over again.



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