Playroom Graveyard

It's called the playroom. Mike has no idea why, it's not like there's any playing going on down here nowadays. Mike's mom is burying herself in stuff. Since dad died she's flat out refused to deal with the reams of paper and magazines, decades of dad's old journals, mail order catalogues, piles of tools, stacks of books and three full sets of outdated encyclopedias. At some point, she went on a christmas decoration buying binge, so there are random rubbermaid bins spilling over with garland, plastic reindeer, wooden creches,  half cracked blown glass ornaments and fibreoptic glow in the dark mini wreaths. It's beyond Mike's scope. He knows she needs help, a professional organizer or something, he's seen some shows on tv. They bring in someone to help you get everything sorted and cleared out. Then inevitably, the poor person ends up buried alive in the same junk months later. It's all so depressing. Mike's first drumkit, which she and dad bought on layaway from Lawton's Music back in '78 still sits semi assembled next to the spare set of winter rims from what looks like the Chevette. It wasn't always like this. Mike has fond memories of playing spin the bottle with Tracy Sullivan and Morgan Leveille in grade 6. He wonders if the floor is still chocolate coloured brick shaped linoleum. He used to pretend he was skating over cobblestones in Old Montreal while wearing Aunt Margaret's thick handknit wool birthday socks, a new pair every year. Mike has every single pair in a drawer, some completely worn through, most darned and reknit twice over. Aunt Margaret. If she was still around. The beginning of the end. The affair nearly killed mom. Then Dad's heartattack. Mike's convinced that was the catalyst to Mom's inability to function. Now he stands knee deep in the chaos, surrounded by totems of the life that used to be, a fine mess. If he had his way he'd back it all up into a dumpster, slam the lid closed and wipe the place clean, no options for anyone. Sometimes you have to just burn it all down and start over. Endings exist for a reason.