What would you grab if your house was on fire and you had thirty seconds left?
What would you take if you were lost on a deserted island?
They ask these questions as if I have an answer; as if I know what the collection of all my memories crumbling before me would look like, or the how the pang of the loneliness on the island would hurt.
As if I had one object in my pocket that said it all. As if the fragile baby hat I wore from the hospital was less important than the dried corsage my date gave me to my junior prom.
Maybe I should, maybe thats the problem. Maybe consolodating my life down to just one thing is the answer.
Is it food? I like sushi sometimes, but wait burgers too.
Is it my family? I feel morally obligated to say this, but wait how do i pick just one?
Is it the crumpled up paper in the back of my drawer? The prose the boy i first loved wrote me before he ripped my heart into tiny fragments? Maybe I can grab one of those. Is that an option? To grab a tiny piece of my heart on the way out?
The heart that experienced the quick flutter of my first kiss, or the deep plunge when I got called into the principal's office, the steady beat as I ran around the track in PE too focused on my appearance.
Maybe that itty-bitty, tiny, minsicule piece of my heart would grow. Maybe it wouldn't be as pretty; a couple of scars here and there. But still, the memories intact. The physical objects not present wont make a difference.
So, they ask, what would you grab? What would you bring?
My mind races not to the objects in my room, or the necessary means of survival.
I answer firmly, I'd grab the memories stored in my freckled head.
And I'd keep them with me wherever I went.