Wednesday, July 26, 2023
Thursday, July 20, 2023
when I begin to watch the U-Haul truck up front.
Two men are lugging furniture, dragging it across the drive.
A middle-aged woman points to which item to unload next,
no doubt hoping they'll bring new memories and meanings.
A spigot inside my head breaks open and now water is
running down my cheeks. I take off my glasses to dry them
which messes up my vision and all is blurred.
Instead of strangers panting, walking back and forth,
I see my sons heaving with exertion as they dispose
of the last bits of family furniture when I am gone.
Goodbye, little wicker-seat rocker, once
just right when age-six-someone had a mommy,
now too low for same-someone now a grandma.
Farewell, handsome console table my mother set
the candelabra on and lit them all for festive meals,
now displaying artifacts I'd otherwise lock away.
So long, Governor Winthrop desk dear Grandfather
brought so he could work at home sometimes,
now storing my scattered treasures, paperwork and dust.
awaiting for the “o-o-o-h, look at this,” and
taken away to fill an empty space or need
to bring new memories and meanings.
For minutes I am in another place,
looking down from another life
seeing the final march toward nothingness.