The Collector

A fraction of the cookbooks

I don't know what happened, but lately Mark hasn't been getting packages delivered every day. No more mystery boxes showing up in the hallway. No more watching as Fedex, UPS, and the mail man pull up in front of the house. No more Mark telling me that, "It's nothing. Give me that package." Then slinking off to the bedroom to open the nothing. Collecting crap is Mark's hobby. Has he finally reached his saturation point? Is there nothing left for him to collect? He has hundreds of cook books that I swear are bowing the floor under the bookcases in the living room. Under our bed are around two thousand Broadway window posters. Everywhere I look in this house there is a collection of something or other. But I don't really think he is done. I think it's just a short pause until he gets hooked on another binge of collecting. I just hope it isn't something big, like rocks, or too stupid, like sea shells. If I can't trip over it, or bump into it. If his latest passion doesn't take up too much room, (Remember, we now have a basement.) I can probably deal with whatever shows up. I figure if I just keep everything clean and neat around here Mark can still keep calling himself a collector. Because the only difference between collecting and hoarding is the amount of dust on all that crap.