Creation 1

I unpacked Perris-Beauchamp today and spread it all over my bedroom floor. I clicked open the brass clasps of the autumn clamshell suitcase. I swiveled its bank of small wooden doors upright, it looked like an ornate advent calendar, or the wall of an apothecary; all of Perris-Beauchamp tucked away like chocolate figurines, like arrowroot and milk thistle. I spread out the white green of land, I smoothed the ends, my hand slipped off the edges and my fingers came back cold and wet. I pulled out the Mayberry well and placed in a halo of thicket, and tapped it fatherly on its pointed crown. I stashed the old motorbike on the beach where they first found it. I hung the balloons in the air, from tiny ribbons of silk. I pulled the miniature trees from their cubbies and placed them right where I remember them to have been. I dusted the south with a touch of snow from my case. When everything satisfied my memory of itself, I blew a slight wind-molecules of arrowroot and milk thistles, a touch of chocolate, spiraling in the clouds-just enough to set the balloons in motion. I couldn't remember what came next, but I stay and wait, hoping it will come back to me.