Our Project 137 assignment was to write about the trunk we carry around. What’s in it? What makes it so heavy? How could we lighten it? I wrote this longhand in one swell foop.
My trunk. Dare I lift the lid? It’s filled with guilt bars; laden with lead weights of regret. Shoulda. Coulda. Woulda. What use are they? That I should tuck them in so snugly? Oh, the weight would sink a battleship and yet somehow I lug it singlehandedly. My burden alone.
I stagger—I am resolute. I soldier on. Is it my punishment you wonder? Perhaps. The bittersweet of ill-advised choices? Still—lift the lid so you may peek? A single crack of filtered sunlight to expose dark corners. To illuminate only emptiness.