Weiling had 12 turtles

I was in a familiar mood. I pushed my bed away from the cupboard, wishing to throw away every single thing inside that I didn’t need. I began by throwing away the old modem that lay uselessly on the shelf, waiting pathetically for the router to fail so that it could say I told you so. But I was diverted by the red brown rolex box.

I took it out, and at its bottom, found a blue dishevelled notebook with a timetable on its inside cover. It said that on a monday in 1991, I began school with assemby at 730 in the morning, then had music, maths and pe before recess. It also told me that Weiling had 12 turtles. She lost 7 of them. How many turtles have she left?

There was also a large yellow envelope, and I poured its contents onto my table.

On pages with 3 hole punch
with handwriting now cursive
words more numerous, grammatical
at the expense of charm
and with february declared
before twenty eight
and oh seven:

the boiling water overflowed
and burned my fingers
and she looked at me and asked if I was ok
and rubbed my fingers soothingly
embarassed but touched I was ok I melted
I still remember
the concern, your eyes
I still remember
the burgers and fries
you came over
and nudged me and asked
Tim! you pointed and I offered you the peanut butter and jelly sandwhich.

I put them back in the box and the yellow envelope, and then back in the cupboard, lying at my feet instead of in my head.

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