It’s been a whirl of excessive humidity, insomnia, drawings of monsters from another planet, long-track tornadoes, and rusted ice cream makers.
Because of mice and mildew invading our bevy of cardboard boxes, I’ve been putting my hands on all our stored history — from my labor history term papers from 1980 through Ken’s junior high yearbook onward through our kids’ baby announcements that thrilled us, elementary school music programs based on deep surrealism, and college grade cards that depressed us all. Meanwhile, the heat and humidity drenched me in contemporary sweat, Daniel yelled, “Oh my god!” while following live cam storms, and Ken explained to me that the tornado near Harveysville, if it kept going straight, then died its way north just a bit, could wipe out our home.
In between it all, I work a little, guzzle iced coffee, pack up Ken’s teenage ice skates, and return to Target each day to fill the back of the CRV with more purple, blue and gray giant plastic bins that will find a new life holding letters from dead relatives and hundreds of video games that might be worth something in 2070. There’s something very grand and satisfying about putting the pieces of our old signs and wonders into some kind of order, one bin at a time, clearing the first chakra of the house while the big sky of the world remakes itself in its wildest high wind unfoldings.
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