Curation

Photo by Brandable Box on Unsplash

First, a death. Then, the purge:
waves of purges, more accurately, sustained
by unpredictable reservoirs of human will.
Decades’ worth of a parent’s accumulated possessions
of undeniable, but inconsistently determinable, value
were destined to be evicted — disgorged — somehow.

Neither auctioned nor gifted nor sold nor somehow
recycled nor upcycled nor trashed post-purge,
a cardboard box tattooed Kristen in green Sharpie hinted at, and hoped for, value.
Inside was a reverse chronological voyage sustained
by objects given curatorial imprimatur, technically my possessions,
probably once believed to predict some inchoate aptitude or force of will.

An only child and now a parent of two, I will
stash pre-K papier-mâché and art and written words, somehow
all awaiting rediscovery in our basement, my children’s possessions
headed for that bête noire of minimalism, the storage unit, pre-purge.
Boxes of items accumulated not for but about them, sustained
by greathearted determinations of value.

On top sat an offprint of one of my first scholarly articles, its value
clear; next, business cards belied entrepreneurial bent and failure, not so much of will,
but of millennial dreams consumed as fuel. I rediscovered high school graduation ephemera, sustained
by glossy photographic reminders of poor choices of dress, of dates, veritable hair shirts that somehow
survived. I seemed an incongruent caretaker of my eponymous box post-purge,
confronted and befuddled and unnerved by these possessions.

I want a corrigendum, context for my box of contextomies — I mean possessions:
youthful missteps and their corrections or explanations, presented as an addendum of value.
Inevitably inherited by its muse, the omnium-gatherum awaits its own purge;
its capacity to outlive or embarrass or convict or repudiate will
be defeated by the one it failed to…