In the pantry is a dark cupboard that used to be organised. Its shelves are stacked with silver teapots, coffee pots, crystal decanters, pewter plates, silver plated gravy boats. They are wrapped in pale blue tissue paper. As I unwrap, I know I was meant to learn who gave these wedding presents before I existed. They were expensive, cherished gifts, kept pristine, used for very special occasions. There is a wedding list, a scrap of paper, that names the givers. Now the unused gifts lie on the scanner, the dust is everywhere, fingerprints tarnishing the air, falling around the silver as I wrap and unwrap. I think about the metal debris that floats in space, orbiting, round and round, passing the stars, sometimes crashing to Earth, sometimes breaking into tiny particles. I’m not sure what to do with these presents. I imagine them floating in the darkness. Stardust blooms.
Work in progress.
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