Even sorting and emptying the scary cupboard
is a more attractive proposition than
doing the tax return.
No pictures. Too scary.
But let's just say it includes
boxes and boxes of unsorted photographs,
going back to my parents' (black and white)
and grandparents' ( sepia'ed) youth
and covering the whole,
'Am I ready to let go of this?' territory
of my children's births, birthdays, holidays, Christmases,
and school photos.
The albums are in there too,
because for a while I was on top of the game
and they are big and bad enough,
but so help me, I did giant framed collages too -
the sort that made it look as though I had
more children than the Old Woman who Lived in a Shoe.
Then there are the ones of me.
Black and white or hand-tinted baby portraits by my
grandpa who was a skilled amateur photographer,
little square prints with a white border,
fuzzy Instamatic family groups,
slightly pinky-orange tinged
skinny me, in long forgotten outfits
in far away places.
Do I throw her out?
So far today I have reduced but not vanquished
the boxes, largely by dint of culling
unidentifiable scenery and people.
So far, so painless.
The next stage may see me turning to the tax return
for light relief.