the forty-five

If you look, you will find patterns in anything.  My patrons remind me of this regularly, doggedly researching worn pretzels of thought.  One places a tattered index card on the desk in front of me and begs me to find the words, the right order, the combination that will unlock the door with no handle. And the patterns are there, although not always the same ones to which we ascribe meaning.  They are there.  As an amateur archivist, I pay them special heed as signposts of metadata; as an amateur human, I pay them special heed as touchstones of belief. For over five years now, I have lived a small life largely out of satchels trudged to guest spots on weekends.  My possessions make brief, disorderly formations in others’ homes. ...

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