SELF STORAGE
“Self Storage” read the sign
(a little worn with time, like the best of us).
An intriguing idea, so
I pulled into the parking lot,
meandering inside.
The woman at the counter smiled
brochures arranged in a bouquet.
“What part of self are you interested in storing?”
came her query.
“Pick your preference, your poison.
Sadness is popular.
Anger, a close second.
A woman, after a breakup, stored her love,
but retrieved it after a week.”
I leafed through the pamphlets
(candy colors in unimaginative fonts).
“They’ll stay mint?” I asked. “I can get them at any time?”
“Same condition as when stored. You’ll have a key.”
I followed the woman to take a look
at the rooms where self was stored.
Was it like a locker room? Mail slots? A mausoleum?
I couldn’t quite place the familiar place.
“Your dreams for the future can go here as well.”
At this, I felt a twinge.
Certain dreams lingered at the back of my heart
painful to examine because of how bright they’d once shone.
It could be good to tuck them away
take a break from the disappointment of recalling them
and how they hadn’t come to pass.
“What about my regrets?” I asked.
“Those too. Any pieces of your past.”
An unmarked slate, an unmarred mind
Clean of anything but the pleasant and the present.
Tantalizing to think of walking away with only my future and a key
one I could use to check on those regrets and dreams at any time
and carry them again, or leave them forever.
“You’ll get a reference card,”
the woman added.
“To catalog and recall what you’ve stored.”
A card? A simple note for such weighty memories?
I wondered, waited, waffled.
I saw myself in a year, the dreams dismissed entirely,
adding new regrets to the ones I forgot to learn from before.
“I’ll think about it,” I said out of politeness
taking a brochure with a smile
(a waste of paper, a saving of ego).
The “Self Storage” sign faded from sight as I drove away
my personal baggage still in tact.
I found the faded brochure a week ago
stuck in a well-worn book.
I still have my share of stinging regrets
and dreams which never came to be.
I’ve wondered if storing them
would have saved me pain
when they reflected sharply in my memory.
Yet, life’s imperfect process can prepare
for unexpected triumphs.
For the boon of perseverance
and resiliency blooming bright
where the soil seemed barren.
I keep my broken dreams, my regret, my sadness
All parts of self, stored safe within.
Turns out I held the key, free of charge
The only one I’ll ever need.
