Steamer Trunk It sits dark and ragged hidden behind piles of dusty books, mothballed clothes, forgotten toys approach it slowly crack it open like a clam muscles remembering the years-old routine of sliding the key into place, twisting the handle, shifting weight to place the hands just-so along the heavy sides that separate with a grudging squeak and rumble of casters. let dust and smells spill out like memory from a time-capsule inspect the wardrobe first, each bright and ragged cloth: mud still speckles the blue pants near the cuff. the red striped shirt still missing one large button then sort through each undisturbed drawer touch each once-ordinary thing, the hay-stuffed shoes worn at the heel curved upwards at the toe stretch the faded wig into place point the hand-mirror at your face and frown.