I like to think this is my gift to the archaeologists of the future. They will start with a pick ax at the corner of my ceiling, cracking my bedroom open like a square egg, and where they think they'll find a few feet of stale air, there will be the solid sound--puh--followed by a swatch of He-Man sheets. They will peel it off and catalogue it in some immense, well-drawered room, and then they will continue down, past wide stratums of newsprint and old pet bones and my first bike, this whole delicious layer cake of my life.
You say I'm being compulsive again: but really, have you ever sat at the nucleus of your own stratosphere? Thought about where your bones would end up, if anyone would love them the way those archaeologists will love me? With their hands, with those little silver trowels? Yeah, that's what I thought, Mom.
