Hoarder

A wine cellar smells like earth and yeast. My life is like that, aromatic and earthy. Books, albums, maps, newspaper clippings— each has its own nose, like a fine wine. I’ll never clear the boxes from my attic. Piles of papers and magazines cover my desk. A box of photos on the shelf overflows, each photo a memory too strange to forget. Grandmother’s lace, father’s letters— If I didn’t want a past, I would throw them away. If they aren’t important then neither am I.