Mother's Closet

This is everything she ever closed a door on, the broom closet of childhood where no one could ever find a broom. Here, layer upon layer, nothing breathes: photo albums curl at the edges, books she brought home from the library where she worked, handled by thousands of other hands before their final exile where they’ve waited, paper and more paper taking in the ocean air, about to sprout. Mother’s sitting on the bed with her tattered list of dispersals—who gets what among the treasures she hopes I’ll find, but I know I’m seeing what she doesn't want me to see, the daughter cleaning doing what the son would never do. After an hour of excavation the console TV emerges from beneath forgotten sweaters and balled up nylons saved for stuffing puppets, a long ago church project— the TV arrived in 1966 same day I crushed the fender of the car, upsetting the careful plans she’d made for payment. She wants to leave so much behind. Hours later I’ve found nothing I want but the purple mache mask I made in the fourth grade. I like its yellow eyes. She looks at each magazine I remove, saving every word about my brother, the coach. He’s sixty and a long dead mouse has eaten the laces of his baby shoes. I want order. I say I’m old myself, I’ve started throwing things away. I’m lying. I’ve kept everything she’s ever given me.