by Dan Dillard
*****
This transition was tough on me and I cried daily. I cried for the mess my house appeared to be in. I cried for the guilty feelings I had and the paralyzing anxiety I felt whenever I tried to dispose of anything. It was like a creature living in my home, a creature that was bigger than me, stronger than me, and it was daring me to dispose of its possessions.
And then one day I came to grips with it. I made peace with the ever-growing mass of things around me. They had become part of the environment that I lived in and I was falling in love with them. Not all at once, but as I ordered and reordered them, took inventory, ran my fingers across the piles of my things, I fell in love.
I think the very first piece was a glass beer bottle. Something about the way the light gleamed off of it caught my eye and I just stared at it for longer than I should have. Or maybe it was the reflection of my face, all stretched out and goofy, that made me stare. Some magical quality existed there which I hadn’t seen before. I looked at that bottle for hours…maybe days. Anyone in the room would’ve thought me insane, but no one else was there. No one ever is. But something is.
After that, I collected all the bottles I used, and then bought some that other folks had used. They lined the countertops in my kitchen and they filled my kitchen table and the bookshelves, and then the outer edge of my living room along the baseboard molding. I emptied drawers in my dresser for them and enjoyed the clinking sound they made when I would open or close the drawer. I can’t open those drawers anymore; they have grown too heavy. Besides, other loves are obstructing my reach.
Next was a potato chip bag, those plastic bags that look like metal. Shiny on the outside, but gleaming silver on the inside. Under the right lighting, they are as mesmerizing as the bottles. An amazing feat of technology to get all those colors on the plastic too, don’t you think? Logos and words and calories and fat grams and salt. It’s all there, everything you need to know about the contents. I might need to know that one day. Was it merely coincidence that the soda or beer bottles always seemed to accompany the chips, or the cookies, or delivered pizza. There was always plenty of food for my creature, and it seemed satisfied.
Ahh, pizza boxes. They obscure the dining room table. I stacked them underneath that table for starters, and then on top, and now they almost reach the ceiling. It’s like a cardboard castle. I’m somewhat proud of it. My home is like a cave, dangerous in parts, comforting in others, but pull the wrong stone and the whole structure might tumble to the ground below, sealing me off from the world and crushing me. I am fine with that. I know where that stone is.
Now, I’m running out of space. The garage is full and there is little more than a pathway from the bathroom to my recliner and then the kitchen. I have no need of a kitchen, I don’t eat much, and when I feel hunger pains, I can always scavenge something. I haven’t left the house in weeks, but now I feel the urge to bring in more. The monster wants more, but I can’t go out into the world like this.
