My Childhood Home
My childhood home is crumbling. An underfunded museum, grants are few, and donations even less. A caretaker dodders through the space, preparing for visitors, though attendance remains perennially low. Local artists nailed to the gallery walls are little appreciated and fated only for further depreciation at the next garage sale. For security, there is a single long-haired cat who also handles pest control. She is constantly requesting a raise and commendations for sub-par service. Any furniture in the galleries is of unknown provenance and questionable construction. Beds are covered with sheets that smell of Downy and carcinogens. Stacked in the corners are dozens of crocheted blankets in every hue and pattern as if their thick presence alone could ward off the bite of winter. Layers of dust weigh on shoulder pads hung up in the Lost and Don’t Bother Finding. Behind vault doors are cracked frames and bits of things that might be useful someday. Banker’s boxes hold up the plaster walls, stuffed with the fading past and crinkled achievements of little note, dreaming of the day they’ll be audited.
