Ryan Riffenburgh

“Do you know for a fact that the store will take it back? I don’t want to walk around the mall with a router.”  My sister nods.  We sit on the floor of an empty room, my sister across from me with her back to the wall. I watch the dust swirl around the last lamp in the room like cicadas in the summer. We pick from the trash; working out what holds meaning using a perverted equation of sentimentality vs. space in our respective apartments. I lean towards the smaller objects: a passport photo to cleanse the image of…