My kitchen is a graveyard. Its possessions are remnants of the domestic lives of former tenants of this apartment. Every couple of months, a new artifact surfaces that points to the possible character of those who previously inhabited these walls.
I am not the only one who has watched the bus stop through this window. I am not the only one who has slept across from the abandoned bank. And I am not the only one who has lived quietly with the routine of their life.
Among my collection, those fragments of life:
a piece of shattered glass, half coated in wax;
a Corona bottle cap, punctured twice;
a butter knife, dirtied by a thin layer of dust and something once edible.
When I say that these things surface, I'm not lying. These are objects that must have existed previous to my discovering them, but that suddenly appear out of nowhere, calling my attention to them like the clink of a tin can hitting the ground. Not loud. But enough to enter into consciousness.