While they sleep, I open a box. Pay stubs, tax returns, cat fur, dust.
Old letters from my mother, now so changed. She writes that she will send me a copy of a letter from her sister in Kirriemuir about people long gone.
John Cameron apparently came to Perth to do some kind of stonework on the Cathedral. Auntie Mem, my Godmother namesake always said he came from the West -- and that was that. She was the youngest of that family. She was the only one alive when we were growing up -- I wish we had asked her more.She never sent me the copy. I don't know if the original exists. The originator is gone. The house is gone.
And here under the letters are pictures, pictures of imposter me smoking, drinking, philandering, a scrawny imposter dancing with a different woman. A New Year's Eve full of people I haven't seen in ten years dancing in my home so the neighbors all round us stood in their windows and glared. After, a woman slinks for me on a grand piano in the corner of my living room.
And under the pictures, journals the imposter must have kept. On real paper, of all things.
Three hours left to sleep. I'll never get up. I wish we had asked her more.