Museum Ticket

This poem has been written for day #4 of #napowrimo / #glopowrimo . It is based on the prompt, unsolved, that has been provided by #thealiporepost.

The government had imposed a lockdown.

So I decided to clean out my cupboard, brimming with clothes that could be classified as –

Fitted rather too well,

Fitted okay,

Didn’t fit at all and

When did I even buy this?

I made my piles –

Will wear these even though they don’t fit me too well because I paid too much for them,

Will wear these after the tailor opens out the margins,

Will wear these because they still fit and

Won’t ever, ever wear these at all.

I went on to clean the next shelf.

My mother had very kindly dubbed this shelf as the absolute embodiment of my disorganised mind.

It contained artwork from different years – the cringey but well-documented and then well-appreciated art at eleven to the decent but lacking effort art at twenty-two.

It also held a box of old beads, stickers, old pens that didn’t work, a clump of erasers and sharpeners, a rusted compass and divider and a chipped off protractor.

And somewhere far behind, a stack of papers held together by twine.

I couldn’t get myself to remember the time when I chose to own twine or when I, by breaking character, had sorted old papers.

Some were old greeting cards – mostly birthday cards with loud, gaudy graphics or dainty flowers wishing me ‘Happy Birthday’, through the years.

Some were bus tickets and train tickets collected, during holidays, over time.

I found old letters – written on ruled papers and stuffed into aging envelopes bearing too many stamps, inland letters and postcards.

And then came all the brochures from random artists – vivid, bright, charcoal black, white, minimalist, too abstract to follow.

And the very last paper in the pile was an old museum ticket.

The oddest thing was that I had been to this museum with someone but was left with only one ticket for keeps.

I checked the date on the reverse of the ticket only to find familiar handwriting, that never belonged to me, say –

Every beginning
is only a sequel, after all,
and the book of events
is always open halfway through.”

PS: The quoted text is the last verse of the poem ‘Love at First Sight‘ by Wislawa Szymborska.

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