I’m back home, in this house so thoroughly filled with memories that all I want to do is move and forget everything entirely. I’m sitting in the basement, next to the stain where a friend puked on New Years Eve, 2007. I’m next to a couch where I kissed a girl from my church and never talked to her again. My dad retired last year, and all his stuff from the office is laying around: the computer, the packing peanuts; the old stuffed swordfish his father caught and hung on the wall is no longer with us: we gave it to the laborers who helped in the move.
I remember those laborers. They drove up in a truck in which someone—some human—had clearly defecated. They parked on a busy street and you could see people holding their nose or circumnavigating the block because the odor was so offensive.
I’m next to an ironing board that we used while sewing my costume for a fifth grade production of Romeo and Juliet. I was Tybalt. I’m next to a stack of VHS cassettes: “Really Wild Animals,” a National Geographic kids program; in eighth grade when I was rehearsing with a band one of my friends suggested we rename ourselves after those tapes. I’m next to a boiler room I used to be afraid of because a dead cockroach lay, dried up like fat almond, somewhere on the floor. That cockroach has been here since we moved in, untouched.
I’m under the plaster that I helped smooth. Under the ceilings, which are supported by pilasters I helped paint. The cabinets ahead of me are filled with liquor bottles watered down to nothing because I drank almost everything we had in my sophomore year of high school.
God, somebody get me out of here. Let me move away so I can have enough distance between me and this room to actually miss being here.