From the bottom mattress of my bunk bed — the one I slept on as an only child until I was 14 years old, the one which, when pressed for an answer as to who the top bunk was for, my mother glibly replied, “Nobody, one of you was enough!” — I can see my bedroom closet, its careening door ajar. It’s filled with the type of junk you’d find in a typical pre-teen closet: board games, electric guitars, trading cards and in the corner, baseball bats, the…