Nonfiction by Bonnie Demerjian
has followed you everywhere, like a faithful dog, overfilled with things too useful to be filed where, perhaps, they’ll be forgotten, or thrown away to later regret. There are other things, fit for no category or home. Here is a slip of paper with the name of the plumber who’s not in the phone book. Who is anymore? The postal tracking slip for that package to your sister. You learned the hard way about keeping these. Raffle tickets bought in hope, expired, and baggage tags that traveled to La Paz one spring and Florence one fall. User’s manuals which will surely be consulted since everything breaks down sometime. There are vaccination records for cats and dogs long gone. You have their photos, but it’s so heartless to throw away these chronicles of their bodily care. Where else to keep her crayon drawing of a hummingbird once it’s migrated from the refrigerator door? At the bottom, a jumble of business cards for window glass, car repair, and a name tag on a string from your high school reunion. On it, a photo, you at seventeen to remind you of who you were. Are? Then, a penny, a bullet, and three keys to forgotten doors. It’s not big enough to contain a whole life, but what vessel could?
Bonnie Demerjian writes from her island home in Southeast Alaska in the Tongass National Forest on the land of the Lingit Aaní, a place that continually nourishes her writing. Her poetry has appeared in Tidal Echoes, Alaska Women Speak, Pure Slush, and Blue Heron Review, among others. Read some of her earlier work on The Bluebird Word, to include her flash nonfiction essay Three Scenes in Sunlight.
