Museum of Me

Diaries left open and letters framed, chronological ink waving from a horizon, gone. Clothes hung to recreate a wedding, a dance, a touch – enclosed in glass cases to trap the scent inside. There’s a recording of his voice that skips back through time. Her handprint in clay, cracked. That first glass of wine, now cobwebbed, stained red, next to teenage car keys rusted. A prescription acts as evidence I tried. Sawdust forms a path between pets and my Walkman makes youth balk; to them my VHS collection is alien. Postcards curled from saltwater offer perfect snapshots years before we scrolled for one. A mortarboard on display alongside a bus pass, front door key and bank card. A blade of Sefton Park grass pinned down like the wings of a butterfly. Receipts of apologies. Candleholders waxed in missteps. Maybe, one day, there’ll be a travelling exhibit where I finally get to meet you. And the curator will add you, title card and all, to this museum of me.