MOVING OUT

The books are packed,

taken from the shelves

where they have sat

for years, their titles

waking memories

with their silent words.

I’ve taken down paintings from the walls,

and photographs of my children,

their youthful skin from years ago

now showing wrinkles

as I place their pictures in a box,

and now the walls are bare,

the memories to be carried

to another wall, somewhere.

I’ve emptied out the drawers

of batteries and tablecloths,

old notebooks and candles,

souvenirs from trips

and coins from foreign countries,

unspent and useless now,

except for memories now gathered

to be taken someplace new.

I look at shirts and sweaters,

boots, old shoes, a jacket

I can’t remember ever wearing,

a vest worn at someone’s wedding

I heard is now divorced,

and know I want to purge myself of clothes

and stuff I no longer need or want,

to sort out the items of my life,

the remnants that weigh me down

with baggage from another time,

when what I want is lightness

and a happy heart that comes

from moving on, not moving out.

And so, I sit here at this table

where I write and eat

and watch the birds and squirrels

and look around,

glancing at the wood stove where the fire

no longer burns,

and at the couch and chair

that soon will leave dust balls on the floor

in an empty room where I have lived and loved,

and I swallow what I cannot say

knowing I will take with me

the only thing that matters.