These ribs are like cluttered bookshelves, each one loaded heavy with my life's bric-a-brac. That one is full of my childhood, this other one stacked high with various traumas, the one over there holds the best memories of the best times from the best years in the best places. The one in the middle packed to the brim with heartbreaks, and the one down on the end holds those sweet and wonderful cherished experiences with my son - like when he was three years old, sitting on my lap in the sunshine, his head leaning against me and me feeling his incredibly warm and soft little boy hair against my cheek - that one is a favorite. Each rib storing these things within me, being carried always, everywhere I go. My broken vertebrae like rickety brackets barely able to hold their weight. I'm ready to purge a lot of the old, lousy junk to make room for better, lighter things, that float and glide and are a joy to hold onto. I want to dust and organize and tidy things up. Fill up a box or two of the past and toss it out, never to return.
