The landlord lets me into his apartment. He fumbles with a set of keys while I bite my tongue. I want to get this over with. He’s slowing me down. Inside, I’m left alone with my box of trash bags and toxic agents. Everything is a mess. I can feel him here and already I’m pissed off. He was a hoarder and I’ve got to clean up all the shit he left behind.
Aaron should be here. But he paid the funeral expenses. I’m always left with the unpleasant bits. When I open the blinds dust assaults my lungs. If Aaron were here I’d strangle him, too. But if he were here I wouldn’t want to.
Anything that might have had value is garbage now. It’s all covered in filth. Sorting this crap is pointless, I should throw it away. Decades of magazines, condiments, VHS and Beta video, cassettes, an archive of junk mail, beer cans, shoes too worn out for goodwill and so on. I put it all in the bags—black like the one they put our father in. In this I am the undertaker. I know I’ll be here tomorrow.
I strip the bed. I open the nightstand and that’s where I find it—my box. It’s filled with little treasures. At the bottom is a valentine’s card, but I can’t touch it with these stained hands. I pick up the heart hole punch on top. The tag is still on it. Provo Craft. Spanish Fork, Utah 84660 MADE IN CHINA FABRIQUE EN CHINE. I want to use it; punch out all the bitterness and anger in my chest. Right now I want to be the girl who doesn’t resent her father. Daddy, will you be my valentine?
It’s the only thing I can’t throw away.
This piece was the second I wrote, and went through two revisions. The first story I liked, but I felt it didn't focus on the object enough. I tried to keep stereotypes out of it, and focus on the important details.
ReplyDeleteNice job, Rachel. It's a great set-up. We might get a little confused about the different men here: the landlord, Aaron, the father. I wasn't sure if Aaron was the "he" that died, for example. For as short as it is, the piece does linger a bit too long on the resentment in the early going, when it could get this stated, or illustrated, and then get right to an even more specific and unique description of the crammed apartment. Might there be a suggestion of why he hoarded? And the source of his isolation that would highlight the emotional shift that comes with the object. Do we need the deatils about its manufacture?
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