There's a cardboard box in the attic where I keep everything I don't want to think about. It's heavy, a masterpiece made of the whole weight of the world, crammed with at least one apocalypse, several civil wars, and lots of small stuff I can't remember keeping.
To reach the box presents a real challenge: I have to stand on a ladder, push a heavy wooden door with my head so I can keep my hands free to fasten the latch that holds the door up. The act is extremely dangerous and complex, not unlike like defying gravity.
Lately, I've been thinking that it's time to start taking things out of the box, bringing them down into the house one-by-one to think about again, shake the dark space out of them and watch how the light becomes a poet right before my eyes.
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