Greetings, writers—
Oh, I had grand plans for my Covid quarantine. Forget writing, I’d do all the things I’d been putting off.
Maybe I’d manage to buy a new stove so we wouldn’t have to cook our dinners with a toaster oven and a single induction hotplate. Maybe I’d finally figure out whether or not we had dental insurance. Maybe I could find various missing tax documents. Maybe I’d patch my moth-eaten cashmere sweaters in interesting, artful ways.
Or what if I cleaned out the desk in my bedroom, which I never normally use and which was handmade by my great-grandfather, and which is full of all kinds of shit things, including: a jumpsuit my daughter sewed when she was 10, my mother’s cloisonne earrings from the 1980s, a dozen small notebooks, a jar of salve made by an Oregon witch, a Fossil watch I wore in high school, an ancient tube of wine-colored lipgloss, three glue sticks, some costume jewelry, assorted rocks and seashells, an Eb & Bean punch card, a My Little Pony hairbrush, my old eyeglasses, a grand- or great-grandparent’s eyeglasses, a pair of swim goggles… oh, I could go on forever.
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