by amy sharp

Sometimes I take out a small box from the closet and show my sons all of my notes and mix tapes from the 90s. I let them hold them and turn them in their small hands. I tell them quietly about a time when you could hand someone a piece of your heart and they could feel the weight in their hands. I tell them that a long time ago you had to call someone. You had to put your hands all over them. We go to the basement and find the old boombox with the lost the cord and find all the fat batteries and play the tapes. We sit on the wooden steps and listen to the past. Sometimes they dance and I tell them the stories of the people the tapes came from. I don't leave anything out.