Humbled to our knees amidst the junk;

The sharp new boxes bringing to awareness

the worn edges and lackluster of the rest,

As a white shirt contrasts to winter skin.



A seemingly insurmountable Everest of albums,

giving way to closet upon closet of freshly tagged clothes.

Rummaging scavengers, we devour our prey.

Merciless destroyers, we are startlingly stoic.



With prying eyes and unclean hands,

We ingest the items.

Barking and bickering over rights,

We tear open the flesh and sink our teeth in.



"You can have the tea set, the table, and chest,

Mom would have wanted me to have the china ..."



Discarded in the corner sits a solitary case,

Housing unrealized treasure.

Leaving the pack, I wander mesmerized toward it.

I can still hear her voice:



Proudly describing the multitude of shapes,

And, with that laugh in her eyes,

Telling of the exotic states they came from,

As a war veteran would show you his scars.



The glistening gifts of love,

Whose stories and origins I know so well, had tamed me.

Blinded by their headlights,

I collide with their memories.



I carried the gems away with me that night;

And seeing the house for the last time, I drove away.



Not with the uncontented hungry eyes of the rest,

But with the smiling misty eyes of a child

Meeting her past in a box

of paperweights.