One Christmas I gave the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever given:
An annotated copy of my childhood.
I’d spent hours scratching down memories and sarcastic quips,
Secrets and plans on the layout of my brains
(for quick reassembly, for whatever reason).
It was thoughtful because I knew I was leaving,
And I knew that you loved me,
So I sat down and cataloged the parts,
Added footnotes and the necessary indexes.
The whole thing must have been hopelessly technical.
Maybe it was my fault for not including the pieces,
But I ran out of money and time,
And I hoped that maybe you’d pull what spares you needed from me,
But blue-light specials are easier.
Convenience should never be overlooked as a selling point.
I don’t mention any of this because I’m upset.
I completely understand.
I just–
Well, I wish I had a copy of that on file.
My records are a little shoddy anymore,
And it’d be nice to know where to solder shit back,
To know what parts I’ve lost along the way.
