I’ve accumulated months and years of it, stuffed it into little drawers and canisters, tins and jewelry boxes, crammed decades of it into trunks and cartons and crates. And I was sitting at the kitchen table making a list when the Past strolled in the back door and started in bitching about some insult or slight from a little league game in 1973 nobody can even remember. And the kids keep running in and out, blinding light sprayed everywhere like water from a sprinkler, and a house wren on the lawn, asking nothing, and the tall spruce beside the hedge, asking nothing, the kids getting a drink of water at the sink, laughing, making some crazy plan for the afternoon, something to do with string and popsicle sticks they’ve just invented, letting the screen door slam, tracking in dirt, running through all that empty space, all that light.