ojala
Weeks of mail collecting on our kitchen table. I hadn't yet conceived of a way to organize it all, so it stayed where it was. I could imagine my older sister opening a new bag of Sunchips on her way to the TV, paying no mind to her postcard from Verizon, her catalog from IKEA, her pre-approved credit card, her free cruise to Alaska. Whole grain snacks were a higher priority.

I pulled my Pottery Barn catalog from the stack. Fuck you Pottery Barn. Your beechwood entryway bench, your perfectly pinstriped Sailor's cushion, your artisan beveled swivel mirrors, your framed frosted glass message board, your linen pinboard. Your resin conch shells and starfish.

Photographs of my living room, my bathroom, and my kitchen were in the pages of that catalog. Thousands of dollars away.