It wouldn’t fit in my luggage and it would cost hundreds of dollars to check in an extra bag. That’s why I was determined to fit everything into my bags, which left only one problem – the walking stick. Apparently seamail hasn’t been a thing for years. The look the clerk gave him was the same one the postal worker gave me. Burns attempts to send a telegram to the Prussian embassy in Siam. There is an episode of The Simpsons in which Mr. Once, bamboozled by the shipping costs, I asked USPS if I could send something by seamail instead. I wound up with two full suitcases toeing the airline’s weight limit, but I didn’t mind if one went over – even the excess baggage fees are cheaper than paying to send heavy boxes by airmail. On my most recent visit I decided to cram as much as possible into my luggage to bring it back before my stuff went the way of Saint Joan. My mother sent me a photo of herself next to a big, gasoline-soaked pile of my childhood treasures, one hand holding a martini and the other poised to flick a lit cigarette onto the pyre. But my parents are tired of housing what’s left and keep dropping hints they want it gone. Somehow it managed to survive the living carpet of mold that ate the family photos and the rust that turned the inside of my vintage computers into a moist, crystalline forest.

But, like most of my things, the walking stick has spent the last 10 years in my parents’ house in Sydney, Australia.

Years ago, when I turned 21, my friend got me a walking stick with a bicycle bell attached so I could signal to pedestrians and other meaningless blockages that I was coming through. But not disabled - I feel like that’s an important piece of information before we start. calling him a magnificent, exotic pitcher plant or a gorgeously ornamented egg-cup. The boyfriend sometimes accuses me of being manic when I write to him at 3:30 a.m.

I’m not disabled, just a terrible person.

Skunks Dance by St. John Karp