I lost my memory when she died. I couldn’t recognize things she owned, knew no history, felt no tenderness for treasures to be cleared out quickly from her rented room.
Thoughts of her
litter the floor
with disremembered jewelry
Months later, I remembered what was lost. Afghans and sweaters I crocheted for her. The poetry books I wrote for her. The birthday cards. All gone. Perhaps somebody gave them a new home. Perhaps they’re in a landfill.
I can’t reclaim the hours
I poured into her gifts.
Time and arthritis won’t let me recreate them.
Now I look through cabinet doors and closets full of what I thought I’d need but never used. Shelves and clothes racks groaning under years of useful things. Precious to me only.
All that I am and have
will someday be in boxes
the trash truck will pick up.
published in Write Over the Moon
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