How big am I, really?
I feel an almost suffocating sense of waste ( is it that? when I am here. The drawers I am still allowed to keep in my parents' house are filled - yes, really filled - of these things I have collected over years and years that I can't bear to part with. Seashells from beaches six years ago, beautiful presents from people that I don't feel careful enough to use yet, scraps of cloth, postcards, scraps of paper with phone numbers of people I know I'll never see again, deer bones, gull bones, bones I'm not sure about, a black rubber duck signed by a musician (is he famous? I don't even know). I have a forked stick from the Saco that I must have picked up about 10 years ago. But what am I doing with this stuff? I imagine that when I am a grown up, I will have display case coffee tables filled and book cases and shelves filled with these things, and that I will be glad to have kept all of these things then. But what about before that? What do I do with these things until then?