This column is a reprint from Unwinnable Monthly #104. If you like what you see, grab the magazine for less than ten dollars, or subscribe and get all future magazines for half price.
Revisiting stories, old and new.
My life is in boxes.
Like many people, I have difficulty
The last time I moved
it was barely more than a thousand feet—
of a thousand
with a single step.
Even this relocation
Is any real sense
But my life,
is in a box.
At the end of my new block, surrounded
by a wrought iron fence,
is the grave of John Clark,
who founded this new town.
My new home
and the homes around it
were built thirteen years ago,
And two centuries after the death of that man
who lies as far from me as my last home was from the one before.
I find comfort
in the adjacence
of this bit of death to my new life.
I cannot understand how people attend churches where they cannot be buried.
I open boxes
when I can
And my life will emerge after a fashion,
to be considered and
Resettled, for a time,
and the boxes
to be removed.
I cannot be buried here.
Other boxes, on other days.
But this time I will anchor my open shelves to the walls.
Gavin Craig is a writer and critic who lives outside of Washington, D.C. Follow him on Twitter @CraigGav.