inventory
a living archive.
I’m taking inventory of my kitchen as I clean up tonight. On the table: a navy leather lipstick case bought in Florence. I’ve used it to hold a few cigarettes and small lighter. [In Rome, at sunset, I dangled my feet over the bank of the River Tiber and a woman beside me asked, accendino? I took her assumption as a pin of honor, but I didn’t have a lighter on me because I didn’t buy the lipstick case until the following day.] On the table, cont.: A lipstick that I now keep in the navy case because I don’t actually smoke cigarettes.
On the table: dried orange roses, turned pink. Nine of a dozen roses bought on Christmas Eve, the other three placed in sweet Rudy’s little stocking, made by Max’s hands. [Max is in New York tonight, the stockings are in the attic.] I don’t want to throw away the roses. They keep him with us.
A small bookcase against the wall: my shelf [history], Max’s shelf [poetry], a jar full of black pencils that was once full of marinated artichokes or roasted peppers. A resurrection flower—my birthday gift—which is so hardy and forgiving. Tonight, I’ll give it water. [I keep it in a shell on top of a plate that belonged to my grandmother, Ann Marie. There are holes in the shell, and the plate catches the water. I used to eat saltine crackers and peanut butter off this plate]. Tomorrow, it will be green and open. Stone owl bookends, a paperweight, polaroid pictures of a visit to New England this past October. The trip was like walking a tightrope between timelines.
It is easy to be here in this little house where we’ve passed time faster than I thought was possible. They say those things (like “time flies” and all), but I didn’t know it went like this. It’s just as: “I can’t believe it’s the holidays already” or “we haven’t had a night out in a while” or “it’s almost time for bed.” One can never explain. My stomach somersaults at the thought of leaving here and how we soon will, and I somersault again. What has surprised me most about passing time so far is that you cannot easily choose what to keep, and whatever it is you do keep needs a sacred place. I usually can’t recognize a sacred place until after I’ve made it.
On the table: wrinkled napkins, wax candle drippings, a scratch, elbows, our grocery list, my leather case from Florence, your mug I’ve filled with tea, a feast.