Dusty Fingers

I collect rubbish. Unknowingly, unconsciously or because I'm too
lazy to make decisions, I collect rubbish. With this thought in mind, I
decided to clean out the dust hazard that is the lowest ledge of my
bookshelf. It's not working. Some strange and powerful force is
transforming the waste into memories and things too valuable or useful
to throw away.

Sixteen brown paper bags sit on the top, the kind you get from
bookshops. No memories here, it's just that a brown paper bag seems so
indispensable. It can hold things! Like boxes. I collect boxes too. You
never know when you'll need something to hold something else. There is
probably a reasonable psychological explanation for this hoarding of
containers, but I don't want to get into it right now.

Beneath the paper bags is a pile of old birthday cards. The attained
ages they celebrate are not worth considering. It's more pleasant to
remember the friends they're from. One of them is addressed:
"To our thought remodeling, mood elevating,
Brain sweeper, Humpty Dumpty friend!"
These particular 'friends' wanted to thank me for helping to make peace
after a falling out. Did they have to compare me to a nursery rhyme
character too? Why do some people find it so difficult to compliment
others without throwing in an insult? It says a lot about me doesn't
it. I'm fat and fragile! Well emotionally anyway.

There are a few photos here too, dusty and curling at the edges. A
friend who'd put too much mascara on and was sitting there with her
eyes glued shut, threatening to destroy my hairdo if I didn't dispose
of the camera. Another one of me with my mouth wide-open singing at my
sister's wedding. My nose is shining in this! I hate this picture. Oh
here's a priceless one. It's my aunt in bed with her "old lady" reading
glasses on and a hot water bottle. She was not pleased when I took this
and that's an understatement! She'd had her weekly dose of chemotherapy
for ovarian cancer the day before. It's not a very good shot, all dark
and badly focused.

I find a couple of old wedding invitations from people I barely know, a
used airplane ticket, and a sealed envelope with an address on
it:
Chicken Soup for the Soul
P.O. Box 30880
Santa Barbara CA 93130
USA
Ugh, what was I thinking of! This is so embarrassing. I can't even
remember what I wrote. I slit it open. There are two poems. One's about
my brother and how we're close even though we rarely talk. Disgustingly
maudlin. The other one is about a child I met in hospital during my
clinical rounds as a med. Student.

Pieces of wrapping paper, a couple of papers with erroneus definitions
of medical terms written on them such as Argyll Robertson Pupil?..a
positive consensual light reflex but negative direct light
reflex??.associated with Syphilis. An empty envelope with my brother's
address on it reminds me of a letter that has remained unwritten and
unsent. An email is not a letter. How many other unwritten letters are
floating around in the box of my mind labeled "Guilt" without even an
envelope in the real world to signify their presence? I shall write a
poem about that someday.

Right now, I need a cup of coffee and my blackened fingers need
washing. This pile of junk can sit around on the floor a few more days
until I decide to throw it away.