My fingers stumble around the cluttered cube shelves somewhat frantically. I lift up the Ziploc bags full of oils, costume jewelry, perfume samples. Flick old receipts and thin gift bags of new jewelry. My ear is itching something crazy and I’m searching for a hair pin to soothe it. The ones I keep on the makeshift nightstand of two plastic Sterilite containers are tucked into my locs, pin-curling them for the night.
I look for the box of bobby and hair pins that’s usually peering right out at me. Almost two months here and my things (and me) remain antsy. They never seem to stay where I put them but when I find them they’re right where I left them. I think they must have to get up and walk around their unfamiliar corners to feel like themselves. I do the same.
The box of pins is where they always are. On top of the cube shelf, in front of a fancy black rectangular box with a black ribbon leaning on its corner. The RumChata shot glass holding the piece o’ palo santo to the pins’ right. A small bottle of Bacardi rum meant for Esu to the pins’ left.
My creature comforts are at odds here, regardless of my efforts to designate them a space. So am I. They co-mingle with the other inhabitants of the room. My hair brush and make-up bag sit awkwardly on a pile of my sister’s old shirts. This is a room of forgottens. A room for storage of old memories that haven’t been held in years. Artifacts of former loves that may never see daylight again. My things, in frequent use and needed by me, bristle at this environment. “When will we return to our mod style wooden nightstand and our bathroom drawers?”
I heave a belabored sigh from deep in my chest. “I don’t know. When I can summon a livable wage.” I place my deodorant spray back in its tight space after knocking it over in the hunt for a hair pin. I hope it can feel in my weary smile my gratitude for it not rolling away behind the shelf when I constantly smush it into another bottle.
My shoulders ache. The frustrated and cramped vestiges of my old lives groan and my body holds the sound. They worry that we will become forgottens too. That I will never get us out of here and forget myself. That in forgetting myself I will forget them. They’ll never soothe knees inflamed from bussin a wine or kiss my neck with my signature scent and waft through a sexy lounge. I pick them up, my perfume and my cayenne oil, and assure them that we’ll live a life outside of this box. Reminding them that I’ve recently taken them out for a couple of entertaining nights.
Their labels stare back at me blankly. I haven’t used them with the same verve as before or worn them stridently like I used to. I’m tired. I can’t convince them (or myself) that we’ll saunter into a spot together, fully aware of the delicious polycule we make, anytime soon.
I lay my head on the pillow. Sink uncomfortably into the too-soft mattress. Drift deeper into my liminality.