My insurance claim adjuster keeps calling me.
“Have you finished uploading all the smoke-damaged items to that website?”
“Just calling again because I need that full, completed list of all damaged items.”
Okay, bub, I’ve finished going through everything that was damaged in the fire. All the smoke-damaged stuffed animals from my kid’s room. All the clothing that mildewed after the fire department left hose water and broken plaster all over the floor. The scratched CDs the firefighters knocked over and walked across; the favorite books that reek of smoke; the LOVELY CABLED PILLOWS that were supposed to be a friend’s wedding gift (alas and alack). Just one thing is left.
The horrible, tangled stash that’s been crammed in a box and moved along with me everywhere I’ve gone for the last. . . fourteen years now.
The stash I avoid looking at because of the guilt. And the fear. “Why did I buy that? And if I was going to buy it, why didn’t I buy more? Ugh, that project I started and quit after three inches. I wonder how many of my missing needles are in there. Some of that stuff is still new with the ball band on! --and some of it’s just a mess of hopelessly tangled yarn guts. I think seventeen different skeins have fused into a tentacle demon. I should just throw the whole box out.”
But I didn’t throw it out. . . and now have to sort through it and figure out what everything is.
If you never hear back from me, the tentacle demon devoured me.