In a moment of highly distilled, 140-proof girlhoodness, I extend my seeking fingers into a bag of drawer contents (circa age 12) which had been decanted from some post-dresser storage bin into a small Anthropologie shopping bag under the pretense of “do something with this,” and come out grasping by only the treads in the pads on my fingers a seated unicorn, small and white and porcelain (read: ceramic), golden illegible Chinese sticker intact on grainy belly and all. Of all the small objects in all the rattling plastic jewelry boxes in the world, this was mine.
One darkened motionless drawer-sit and 150% of a decade later, the keeper of this unicorn and its herd will evolve into a soft bellied woman plagued by ladies' minutiae: the waxy negotiation of eating a bite-into-it fruit with lipstick on, the sting of hips imprinted by high-waist jeans, the stains and flesh and sighs, each mechanism of the body broken by the very task it was designed to perform.
Nostalgia’s curse is the sick smile that precedes tears, it's the pleasure inside grief. Sadly the amnesiac finds no respite in sleep—it's just more blankness, and I can't give up my bed. These fragments of your life you may miss so desperately as to be left bewildered and dully pained by the sloping imprint in soft gray matter, by memory's absent bruise. Maybe there are some people you spend your life missing, maybe I’ll die choking on your name.