I came across an old photo from my childhood.
Blond ash Ikea book shelves in the background. They are still in mom’s basement.
Allen key assembly, but real wood.
Our Ikea shelving unit is black, wood based laminate over a cardboard honeycomb filler
I know this, because I put my knee through the middle of the first one I bought.
Hastily assembled during the sleep deprived first months of parenthood.
Each visit is an assault on my reader’s brain.
Fricatives, fullstops and retroflexes all freak my flygel, my grundtal, my Godmorgon
My neighbour calls you the marriage breaker.
Indeed, I saw a childhood friend, pulling two screaming children across the parking lot while his wife yelled at him.
I hadn’t seen him in fifteen years. Today would not be our reunion.
Why were they fighting?
Perhaps a misunderstanding of length and depth?
an hour misspent in the ballpit?
As I manoeuvre through the store, there is an angst, that creeps down the back of my Fyrkantig and rests in my malm.
So much choice should be liberating, but it paralyzes. Have all measurements really been made and no electrical outlet ignored?
NÄCKTEN! I don’t know.
We knew what we wanted before we came in, but things have changed as we wandered the labyrinthine market place.
Make a choice!
I can’t!
GODMORGON! NÄCKTEN!