So many are dropping. Yellow and pink and white stripes up and down 11 months of phone calls. All of our laminated cards and proof of coverage in splotchy black and white, enshrined in some little folder behind the glass door. I don’t begrudge our new dauphin, mostly because I was one once, in a far away fiefdom, and someday I might be again.But I ought to have been in the room for the asking of the questions and the scoring of the sheets, because I’m very good at that. I remind myself that none of these sheets will correspond to people that I will regularly correspond with, but still.
I found my copy of our chain of communiques, by the newsprint about legacies and my other leavings. A bottle, a brochure, a bunch of other papers.
The other papers from the room I’m soon to leave are still in my trunk, alongside the leftover bagels, and all the dusty bags from the playa are waiting in my backyard…
