Pockets
It all must go.Cabin fever is pitching in, pushing her to attack corners in a fury. She seeks all those leftovers tucked away for a later that never came. It rarely does. Objects overlooked until one day they simply blend into the walls, and despite determined eyes the castaways elude her. Tucked beneath last year's requested and received sewing machine, pants awaiting TLC swaddle patterns for skirts and other good intentions. Every scrap is spread across the floor, facing a fate of out-with-the-old: a year's lease of space made pointless. Long scissors slice crisply along edges of a pocket deemed useful to an undetermined future project, another endeavor likely to accumulate until the next evacuation. A snapped flap struggles to restrain fleeing paper crumples, bits of a years forgotten to-do list or scattered contemplations collected and stored with hasty ink. She picks at fragments with little expectation as the vessel has taken a trip through disaster, and there's nothing left to decipher. Water has bled away all language, leaving blue blurs. Linty white fibers dot the tile and collect on her toes as the mass is unraveled. The last fold is unfurled carefully. Centered, small print remains distinct. It has survived undetected among clutter though she has purged meticulously of these memories, scoured all remaining imprints of him from her environment. But though smudged, she reads his hand: "Dear You..."
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