this shower curtain contains multitudes

it isn't often,
the zeroing in on something so small,
trying to memorize the placement of every atom,
while time obligingly stands still.

the door is so new that the slide-thud of the deadbolt feels oily,
the key silent in the still stiff lock,
and for a moment all of me-
everyone i was and am and will become-
is there, infinite, watching the universe turn around an ordinary doorknob.

i didn't unpack for years.
everything like tetris into the trunk and back seat of the white honda civic,
and there it stayed,
through the cold futon, the craigslist ads,
through her yelling and the drool of an aging cat on my blanket (and the poop of a kitten just learning how to operate as anything but a stray).
the art stayed in a pile under my desk.
you don't put nails in temporary walls.

then when the cracked head gasket blew its last,
leaving me to the tender mercies of the bus schedule,
everything went into cardboard boxes.
they were storage,
and then they were furniture.

my apartment looked empty, people said.
i was glad of the space, the silence.

when the mold grew and grew in the bathroom and it was time to go,
i was already packed.

four years and four lifetimes later,
i painted the walls,
remembering,
ghosts around every corner,
her name echoing in my ears,
and tried to deny the words coming out of my own mouth.

"maybe i can make it work, this time."

six months and six lifetimes later,
i'm a different man,
again,
and i've never noticed a door knob as much as i'm noticing this one.

"you're learning to let go in the opposite way from most people,"
he told me on the phone.
i missed him. miss him.
"most people learn to let go of what they have. you're learning to let go of having nothing."

I picked a shower curtain.
it's some kind of swaying linen-like fabric with wood and leaves,
and I picked it.
My desk is in the corner, and My kettle is on the counter,
and every night after work I come home (Home) and lock the door behind me and cry (i've learned you can cry without tears),
because some old dry husk of me is clinging in fear to "i'm not the kind of person who gets to have things like this".
because the rest of me,
vaguely nauseous,
is acclimating to abundance like a diver surfaces,
slowly so the nitrogen in my blood doesn't blow me inside out.

part of me is still waiting for it,
the implosion,
the catch,
the other shoe,
and that part is floating up too (a little slower, please) along with the rest.
but the other part of me,
the part of me that has always been home,
even under dome lights and popcorn skies and through every one of those dark thresholds,
it knows there's air up there,
and my tanks are on fumes,
and i deserve to know what it feels like to breathe all the way down to the bottom of my lungs.

Someday, maybe, a house key will just be a house key, and a shower curtain will just be a shower curtain.

or maybe nothing ever truly becomes unworthy of wonder,
because sometimes when time stands still
it's not for something new,
but for the color red, or a friend smiling as we (don't) say goodbye, or the familiar relief of nightfall.

before the clock ticks over,
and before the endless timeline of my selves condenses back down to the present:
child, i say to her, you will live to hold this key;
and child, the old man says to me, you will live to hold so much more.

yes, i say,
and the door closes behind me like a promise.