It’s got the rhythm of a List poem, but the soul of a Memoir.
One primary school scrunchy—strands of blond hair in the folds. Two baby teeth my son had extracted himself— payment for the Thwirly he had broken (the two 20c pieces from the tooth fairy in tissue paper). The replacement clothes line in its original wrapper. A set of Yale lock keys for doors forever closed and gladly put behind me. One stick of cinnamon flavoured bubblegum from a time when I stopped smoking. A Polaroid, circa Christmas 2003, of when I had won the Miss Legs contest, the champagne cork from my divorce celebration a year later, next to it. A Ziploc bag containing: TheFacebook password on a scrap of paper—I’m missing the simplicity of back then; an Oyster card for December 2012—never used as London was snowed in; the gold Tower of London charm, missing for decades—the charm bracelet lost in a robbery; a faux silver money clip holding a fiver and a dollar bill for monetary good luck. The guest list for my second marriage—a haphazard scribble at best. That photo (from a well-wisher) of my first husband with his ‘gym buddy’. His pristine gym membership card—the second venue for his serious cardio workout. One dead cockroach—I guess they are not immortal after all. A 1980 contest slip for Who shot J.R.?—I had it wrong, anyway—jolted me back to reality. A toy kitchen sink in an immaculate condition—let’s face it: an unrealistic ideal. Everything, including the kitchen sink, except the cable ties I was looking for.
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