Dusty as ghosts
I'm starting to sort out again. The lengthening of the days is bringing back a little of the energy and attention that has been missing for half a year, through a summer of lost purpose and a winter of anniversaries. Memories, dusty as ghosts, come rising out of dented cardboard and crumpled carriers.
My first poems and stories, hand-bound into books with board fronts and backs.
Craft projects kept carefully by my parents over many years, and brought home when I cleared out their house for the last time. My parents' wills.
Love letters from my ex from before we were married. Evidence of his love in my hand where it once was in both of our hearts.
Pictures and paperwork from houses I bought with my ex, including the house in Doncaster that was to be the fresh start for a struggling marriage (I thought) and that turned out to be the step closer to its finish.
Divorce paperwork. Condensing 14 years into just a few pages. Startling in black and white.
The contract for the house in Litton Mill that was a river-lined retreat from the chaos and became the start of my life version 2.
Tim's tenancy agreement from the house in Dadford where things began.
Tim's statements and pay slips. Scraps of paper filled with his spidery writing. Notes left on my desk. Cards from him, loaded with so much love it spilled over the sides.
The estate agent's flier for his beloved shop, now empty, and this beautiful house, now holding only half the love it did. The place where things ended after a decade filled with sweetness.
Writing short fiction, monologues and plays