my room is piled high with junk,
school papers lined with ink
spread thin across the floor,
tattered book with long cracked spines 
stacked high on my desk,
open top boxes line the walls
contents jumbled, 
haphazard.

the fan in the corner blows the paper around,
ruffles the pages of poetry and prose,
mixes the fabric of dresses and white gown
hanging on the back of my door. 
and in the middle of this is me,
shifting artworks from before I could draw
and essays from before I could write
into neat little piles
and placing them in boxes
marked with purple sharpie.

and on the outside of this,
my father,
peering around the corner of the door,
occasionally making his way in
to remove a book,
a pair of worn baby sandals,
a medal from grade school,
a stuffed dog
from their boxes
and restore them
to their dark corners.
or rarely
to take with him,
tucked under his arm
like a gift.