cluttered

Cluttered with memories

No longer living with my parents, I’m surprised that I haven’t yet moved past the concept of having “a room.” In my entire rented suite, only my room seems suited to holding my mass collection of life-relics. It’s surrounded by countless items that only mean something when I tell stories about them. And I tell these stories to myself. Four years ago, in a construction yard in east Maple Ridge, I found a license plate that expired in 1978. It now leans on my wall. I used to walk my golden retriever around that huge construction yard. Her name was…

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