I Was Furniture
I can’t recall much from my childhood. For all I know, I was a piece of furniture—an inanimate object. A cactus in its pot. A collection of pieces gathered through my mother’s struggles—the burnt toaster left on the snow-covered roof, the shattered drinking glass, the missing sofa that left a void across from the television set, the colorless metal bunk beds, the full-sized mattress yearning for its own frame, boxes of nonessentials locked in the attic with the dead birds, the toy box overflowing with decapitated toys, and, of course, the hot iron left dangerously near the bed.
Photo credit: Jena Ardell
The grief is so palpable, James, but so is the willingness to face the harsh reality of the past. I think YOU are the “hot iron,” bringing your fiery passion to the page!
amazing piece – i can relate
That partial childhood. Partial parenting. You’ve captured that,
I agree. This words evoke a painful, loveless =, half-lived childhood so vividly. This is fantastic writing.
Wow. Can I ever relate to this. Great piece of writing, James.