Aftermath of hoarding. I begin to reassemble my ancestors from their furniture: My uncle's study desk opens into a bookshelf. Housing med school books he lent me. I paint it victory red to display my poetry book collection. My grandparents' shared queen-sized bedframe reduces into a double. Enough to fill in their absence through my single body. I've painted the walls a relaxing blue. It drowns the harsh sunlight more evenly. The closet doors reattached expresses joy in honey bun yellow. Let's start over. I'll change the lightbulb, put up mesh screens on the windows. I'll sweep the loss my mother and aunt refuse: Medical record books containing blood pressure numbers, eating windows, and medicine intakes to lessen our visits to the ICU. A framed golden wedding anniversary picture of my grandparents together. Law books from a drop-out dream, my grandfather was a former real estate agent. A series of faded brown family portraits. My mother kneels at a pew. Her brother strikes a pose in his jumpsuit. His sister smiles at their mother behind the camera. There's not enough room in frame for all of them. I'll fit them in with my own accumulations: A photobooth picture of my girlfriend and I sharing a kiss in the second frame. A cloth poster from an art exhibit is Trying to find something better. A friend's painting of a wine glass half-full. Turn this room to remind me of who I am.