I will soon turn 30, and I stand ready to be seen.

The picture says it all. This is Washington State at its finest.

He went for the brains first, taking the books down one by one, five by five, in bunches and singles.  Light, thick, thin, heavy, the books fell into boxes.  He traced vessels, connections, neurons bridging to synapses—

Accidental Death of an Anarchist:  Best cover of a small-thin book, orange, with a black-colored bomb.  Good to Great: Bright red cover, bold, and ultimately useless aside from thoughts being provoked; it’s advice not steeped in science.  Bartleby the Scrivener:  Another thin book, it disappeared mildly into the box.  One Hundred Years of Solitude:  Crowded with the 17 Aurelianos, the book will have a second opportunity on earth.  The Prydain Chronicles:  Taran and Elionwy, together again at last.

Records of a floating life, these books traced pathways as far back as middle school for him, fond memories evoking eras, epochs, times long buried under the amber of a lived life.  But that’s not entirely accurate, for books are living things ready to be re-experienced, re-reading a page, a chapter, or the entire book gives forth the new, adding to the rich palimpsest of life.

The books were packed in treasure chests of cardboard and locked away.  The future would hold them, the present will carry them, and the past was the bearer.  Next, he tackled other areas of that great beast, that tri-cellular organism that made up his apartment—

Team Gallaudet:  Davila passing out golden pins, a promise both kept and unkept.  A Man-Bracelet:  Was it Aeropostale, American Eagle?  Banana Republic?  The Gap?  One of those.  Planned Parenthood voided check:  What a beautiful and necessary organization, saving lives literally and metaphorically, with a name that is both an call to action and cautious jab.  Inkjet Labels, 10 pack:  RIT bookstore price tag still affixed, you are our prioRITy, vocational rehabilitation rehabilitating my inkjet.

These small items barely fit in a box that held a checkbook but the room could not contain the memories and thoughts.  But they would have to live in boxes for a little while longer, dormant, until the next thaw or annihilation.

Let the nights come, let the November winds blow. The streetlights will shine, the roads will be lit early, and we will cross safely to the other side, to the future.

The table surface was green felt.  It had a small wrinkle at the edge, Jack noticed, and he tried to smooth it out.  But Henry was going to kill himself after the game, tonight, somehow, somewhere.

“Call.”

The chips splashed on the table as everyone threw in their ante.  Jack was trying to ignore the game, ignore everyone.  He looked at his cards:  King of Hearts and the Three of Spades.

“Henry, it’s your turn!” Carl said, and tapped the table with a red poker chip, one of those heavy real ones that had heft.  ”Quit messing with your phone and ante up, you’re the big blind.”  Jack looked up and involuntarily glanced at Henry.

Then he saw it again; saw what he always sees during these games.  Henry was going to kill himself, it was written on his face, on his body.  I am.  Going.  To kill.  Myself.  When he first noticed, Jack wanted to scream, “Don’t do it!”  He looked at Henry’s eyes, magnified as always through his thick glasses.  They sat there, those eyes, and looked back at him.

Henry threw his ante on the table casually and peeked at his cards.  Jack looked away at the other members of the table; besides Henry and himself there were Carl, Aaron, Sam, Ernie, Frank, and Greg.  Ernie was the waitress, he was out first.  Frank and Greg were also out of the game and lounging by the television in the other side of the room.

The hand came down to Henry and Sam.  Piles of chips were scattered around the middle of the table as they jockeyed for the win.  Jack couldn’t understand what he saw.  Why would Henry want to play if he was just going to end it all afterwards, roll credits, game over?  He quickly glanced at the other guys, and fortunately could only see glimpses of what they were thinking.

“What should I do,” Jack thought.  ”Should I say something to Henry?  Tell him that he shouldn’t kill himself?  How ridiculous is that.  How the hell do you have that conversation?   Uh, dude, I can see stuff people normally can’t when I play poker, you know, like that guy on TV who can see into people’s thoughts?  Yeah well I could see that you wanted to kill yourself, so, don’t.  Why would you want to do that, anyway?  You’re successful, you have a great wife, you’re here playing with the guys and you have friends?”

“Motherfucker!” Sam says.  Henry has won the hand and is $1500 richer in chips.

It is plain as day to Jack.  As plain as Sam’s barely restrained lust for violence.

(Thats all…I will continue this if enough people comment and want me to…)

The smell of breakfast spread gently over his face, like a soft familiar blanket, the kind of blanket that gripped tight in your hand led you through childhood.  He breathed in deep to better taste the air, to remember.

The mouthwatering unami of sausage, that circular brown puck of heaven, equal parts juicy and sizzling.  The deep meaty smell of potatoes in the hash browns, oily in its seductive appeal.  To the sides, waiting, heavy-lidded were the cinnamon and sugar from the cinnamon rolls, saying, Hey buddy you want this, huh?  Lost somewhere in there was a tang, a bright ray of light, the orange juice.

He breathed in and smelled everything again.  The kitchen was directly in front of him, and various items were left on the counter, in the sink, and on the table.  Spilled orange juice and a few grains of kosher salt nestled against a small plate that still had a sheen of grease from the food, with a fork laid jauntily against the side.  He also noticed a few crumbs left on one of the plates, and smiled to himself.

Two plates, two forks, and two seats.  He slowly cleaned the kitchen, pausing momentarily over the plates, almost caressing them as he placed them in the sink.  He walked to the table again, and picked up a bottle cap—Nantucket Nectars, and read under the cap: “Nantucket’s Brant Point is the second oldest lighthouse in the U.S., built in 1746.”

There was nothing else to do now, he thought.  The kitchen is clean, she has left, and the food has been eaten.  All that’s left now is the smell.