by Victoria McArtor

As a girl, my mother and I organized my room together. Unused shoe boxes became scarf organizers. Clothes were hung by occasion. Precious Moments all an inch and a half apart, the shelf under them dusted. We were quiet. Mindless. My mother made a profession out of putting things in their place, since my Father wouldn’t stay put. The business of applying order to the world is a woman’s enterprise and sometimes leaves her bankrupt. Tonight, I’m flaking on friends in order to re-order. Books are categorized according to color. The static is sucked out of my mind as the vacuum does her job. On my desk: fountain pen, note cards, envelops, stamps. Never stamps, envelops, cards, pen. Things should be in the order they are used. If I can fall asleep tonight while rolling the hand towels into spa-like shapes, then I can put off telling you, dear, that I haven’t stayed put.