there is a pink box filled with kind words from women who no longer think of me, as I rarely think of them, words hidden away like that last golden coin, one final summer flower plucked from the green depths of the Spanish Main, faded and pressed between the pages of a book I'll never read again.
there is a black box filled with black words from a woman who used to think differently but now thinks only of Him, words scrawled with feverish intensity on whatever came to hand and passed out drunken and indiscriminate; I hoarded them jealously but knew then as I know now that they were, that she was, never really mine.
there is a blue folder filled with words about women, shameful words no woman would think well of or claim, words hidden away and rightfully so, like the self-inflicted scars of conscience that come from manipulative skills best practiced alone.
there is a box of teal trimmed with orange, a legacy of the time when those colors were everywhere, callow words cherished within yet forgotten even by their owner like nuts squirreled away against winter's block, to be discovered with glad cries, perhaps, or perhaps only disgust at the stench of mold.
there are twenty-four boxes covered with yellow pineapples and names of beer, boxes filled with the words of others, words of other stars and other times, all these words slowly succumbing to the same depredations of time and neglect as my own.
there is a gray box of diskettes, cramped and one-sided, that contain words formatted, fully processed, but lost forever to obsolescence, growing fainter each year as ones turn into zeroes. And what, pray tell, of that time soon to come, when even three nines must turn into three zeroes?
I swear someday I will get them all back.
I swear someday I will get them all.
I swear someday I will get them.
Many thanks to the email correspondents - Kaite, Scott - who offered constructive criticism of this piece.
Original content on this page © Alan P. Scott. All rights reserved.