\ Thorne Creek

Some of these have been in my possession for years, and I cannot help but think, still, as they crash against the iron walls, that the dream of freedom turned out so much better than the truth of freedom. I wonder if this is why I make myself seem so difficult to understand. If I can appear just slightly out of sync, a hair's breadth different from normal, then it becomes so much harder to either latch on or let go. The fewer variables define my constancy, the simpler, the less difficult it will be to prove my own existence independent of others, a few photos here and there. Some letters. I shave off my belongings with Occam's razor, wonder if even my hands are relevant.

I seek simplicity, but crank out complexity. Is this the combination they call complicity? I swear I had nothing to do with it, all these discardings of temporary comforts and understandings. Now that the memories of the past are loaded into a truck, heading down the highway to be buried and mixed with all the damaged goods, I wonder if I will make any attempt at creating new memories, or sit content with re-writing the past, slightly rearranging slight details ever so slightly, diorama figurines chipped of their nail polish stains.

My family once fought over a tin carousel, a toy given to me when I had no discerning taste between trials and leisure. Blood lines were diluted thinner than water, and looking at this antique now, up close, it seems so unappealing. In my hands I would toss it in with the rest of the lost tidings, give it back to those whose vocation is burial. It is very unlike my fondness for strangers, that moment when you can pull up to mere inches from a person's eyes, see how much different she looks within the natural field of your vision. You can momentarily see through the appearance of her, and these are the collectibles I hold, when all the metals and plastics have deteriorated to nothing, I am still patting my breast pocket.

The boy next door has been on a quest for the past three days to cajole the new neighbor's cat to come close enough for a nuzzle. He tosses it bits of bread, and the small cat sniffs, then purrs, rubs against the fir. But every time the boy approaches, the cat darts away, but not so far, and they start again. I cannot remember if it is unusual for a little boy to have this much patience, if this is how they learn, or if this is what they lose, cast off with their light voices and fair skin. I remember the feeling of finally grabbing onto the stray animal, and do not remember all the effort it took to get there, the chase. I have discarded my own, similar memories. Watching this boy, it seems I have discarded the more pleasant memories, the effort lost in the haze of fulfillment. The ends have mystified the means.

When the truck nears its destination, it will come across an exit hardly ever taken, one that we passed on a vacation a very long time ago. I remember it being very hot, nearly a full day since we had crossed the divide into the high, arid plains, so vast that even in the middle of the sparse lodgepole pine forests, you were convinced there was not a scrap of vegetation on the horizon. The bark of those trees was red like garnet, the sagebrush jealous of the tumbleweeds, with at least the hope of escape. The exit led to a mineral spring, and though we were not allowed to drink on these trips, he remembered this from his own collection of trinkets, and he stopped, let us dip our hands in the clear water. Taking a drink, it was like having a mouthful of pennies. He laughed, made us swallow, went on about some lesson from the bible, and god knows why I can never rid myself of these possessions.

The very last box contained a glass full of old coins, and it fell, shattered. I cannot rid myself now of these souvenirs unless I am willing to bleed for it. I can be patient, I suppose, return home and grab an old broom. I can put it off for awhile. I can be patient, and enjoy the long, slow chase. I remember that I have a pair of gloves behind the seat, and wonder if there is an easier solution yet.