Estas cosas mia.
(These things of mine.)
I never quite know how to start writing a story since I have been programmed
so well to think in poetic verses about beauty and melancholy things like birds.
If my cozy I-can-curl-up-like-a-cat-in-it thrift chair could speak though, he
would tell you about the day I bought him and how I thought I was so strong
but really I looked quite stupid carrying up the four flights of stairs to my
hole in the wall as all the other girls watched me and laughed either at me
or the 60s colors of the chair screaming out at them. Hed also blush
and try to talk about the many sexual encounters I have had there only minutes
before parents would arrive. Maybe he would cry too as he commented on how many
tears are soaked into his skin from all the escapades people and myself have
put myself through. His preachings and knowledge come from many books that he
has viewed from the underside of my face or from being exposed to Oprah and
Mad About You.
My Target woven rugs would have an entirely different story I think. Their tale
wouldnt be long because they havent been many places besides Taiwan
where they were born. Theyd say that they like me because I dont
have much company to get them dirty and that my shoes sleep with them because
I dont.
The new bookcase my parents gave me for my birthday would comment that I have
too many books and that his arms grow heavy holding them all up from drowning.
The books themselves say they like their variety and the Ginsbergs are getting
along with Shel Silversteins and Nikki Givannis. They also giggle their pages
saying that the party is always getting bigger with every buying spree.
Below them is plopped my trunk given to me on the night of my graduation from
my mother. Its many pictures of my relatives and friends symbolizes to me the
love my mother always tried to show. Within its contents are my tennis awards
that could tell of the hero and fierce athlete in me, the exploded tennis ball
that I like to say I hit, and many pictures of drunken parties gone wrong along
with a college photo album and my art project from drawing class with Mr. Pfliger.
That art project, a collective book, alone would spread open its covers and
radiate rays of both sadness and yet power. This was her discovering her-
the book would claim and it is very true.
They all have better stories about me then I could ever try to explain. The
frames of my beautiful sisters and how they grow and that crazy guy Ive
been seeing for two years that has my love wrapped up in a Kleenex inside his
pocket would be able to sit down and do a tv show with you about me. Theyd
gossip on the people showing from their containers. What secrets are held between
my sisters and the romantic and horribly over powering love I feel for Jason.
So many normal objects to have in a dorm room or apartment and yet some I could
never bare to do without. My fridges poetic magnets camouflaging it and
the contents within all as different as the continents on earth. Skim milk,
maraschino cherries still in a jar uneaten, and five kinds of jelly all habitat
there. The fern dying and living next to my window. She would vouch for my devotion
and tenderness as would my bed for my necessity of comfortable materials that
are near my skin. My phone covered in Chiquita banana stickers to show I can
eat healthy. The many posters and artwork describing me to viewers. My Buddhist
one providing my open-mindedness and the one of the Scream opening the client
to my fear of the future. And this, this little expensive chunk of technology
that I never thought I really needed but now I see that I did. What would you
say little Macintosh? That I shower you with stickers of frogs and people and
sayings to make you more human to me so I feel better about using your delete
key. Your large face encompasses so much of my life with only the weekends leaving
you to hibernate as I work and visit others. Do you get lonely and cant
wait for those Mondays to come when I will sit to look into your deep blue eyes
and try to recall poetry for my creative class or concoct a new lesson for my
education class? Without you my arm would fall off and I would no longer be
able to write. Now that would be a story.