The Hole

I wake from a dream and it takes several moments before I realize it was a dream—it felt so real. I was driving my car to an old house I had once lived in. I had a lampshade that matched one we’d left there, and I wanted the new owners to have it.

In the middle of the wide street, is a gigantic hole in the road, big enough for a truck to fall into. There are no cones, blockades, caution tape, nothing at all to keep someone from falling right into certain death. That’s interesting, I think to myself, that wasn’t there when we lived there.

The new owners haven’t moved in, there is some construction work going on. The contractor is there but he’s watching TV and eating a snack instead of working. I go into the house and explain why I’m there, I have, as it turns out, not only a lampshade but a box of this-and-that: small wooden angels, bits of lace, it’s a box of heirlooms from my own life—things I was given or collected from my mom and grandmothers. 

As I sort through the box with the kindly contractor, we agree the new owners aren’t really going to want any of these things. Before heading back I sit and watch TV with the contractor, then look at my watch and remember I have to meet my family soon, I better be on my way. 

I drive carefully around the hole with my box of things in the backseat. Should I just toss them in the hole? That feels wasteful. I will take them to the antique mall and donate them. Perhaps there are things in there that the dealers will want, items they believe their customers are looking for. 

I know that I am done with the box, tired of lugging it around. I don’t need things to keep me connected to my ancestors—what they have left me is within.