and they told me they’d already received four 
cartfuls of childhoods that morning, so mine 
really had to be something special. I told them 
I could offer some memories of Lake Michigan 
or ice skates or strep throat or my best friend 
Kasey. They told me it was all derivative. I said 
perhaps a few scars on my fingers or a couple 
of double plays as a second baseman. They said 
I was getting closer, but where was the meat? 
I told them about learning grandpa was cheating 
on grandma, about being made fun of for how 
I parted my hair. Goodwill said I was so close. 
I told them about the time everyone in my grade 
but me was invited to a sleepover at Jessica’s 
parent’s lake house, about how they put the photos 
on the internet and captioned them “All my fav people.”
I told them about the time my mother was three 
minutes late picking me up from basketball camp 
and I began to wonder in which ditch her mangled 
Toyota Sienna had to be on its roof, wheels still 
spinning and radio playing an LMFAO song; 
I told them about how I had my first panic attack 
in the large stall of the upstairs bathroom at the YMCA, 
wondering which of my classmates would cry 
at my funeral and which of them would pretend to.
Goodwill said now those were things they could 
take, and did I need a receipt for tax purposes?