Woulda Coulda Shoulda

Her story ends in a storage unit; she wrote it quickly in-between bottles of Liebfraumilch - her life so far, an autobiography hard to imagine could have been told in any other way. The editing took many toll-taking years decades that squeezed themselves into her soul fearful of being overheard. A tell-tale flotsam of hurried escapes, the litter of abandoned rented apartments, dockets of disarray, a tally of wrong choices, unkept residue locked away for a better day. Among the put-away, a ‘little brother’ manual typewriter in a suitcase marked ‘mine,’ one edge crushed by a jumble of household items. Various chunks of collateral clutter, now stricken in a clamshell of dinge, objects acquired when the idea of a ‘household’ had a life raft attached to it. Perhaps one day she will be in place, perfectly set and equipped to fit somewhere, but as yet she finds herself unable to write about certain uncertain matters. Could have pawned the typewriter. Could have found less impoverished lovers. Could have paid the storage bill before it was emptied, Should have retrieved the typewriter, would have then rewritten her life from a muddled manuscript of memory forsaking all other versions.