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Nothing arrives whole. Everything comes folded~ creased at the edges, tucked into itself like a secret that forgot how long it has been carried. To be unpacked is to let the day exhale, to open the small, stubborn corners where memory hides like lint in a pocket. I lift each moment from its hiding place~ a peach warm in my palm, a kitchen light trembling on the rim of a glass, a childhood street still smelling faintly of percolator coffee and women laughing in their housecoats. Unpacked, the world softens. It stops pretending to be tidy. It spills~ slow, honest, like a drawer finally opened after years of silence. And I stand there my hands full of the past realizing none of it was ever lost. It was only waiting for me to unfold it.
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