Belongings
April 26 2013

Entering the house
for the last time
how clear it seemed,
the light distilled

unnatural stillness.
A layer of dust
had evenly settled
over everything,
leaving motionless air
cleansed.
As I breezed in, trailing freshness,
disrupting
the oddly comforting calm.

Soon, they will be objects
auctioned-off, passed on
newly possessed.
But now, they are still belongings,
and contain the essence, the spark
of a previous life.
When they held him
felt his touch,
when the kitchen buzzed
and they cleaned-up after.

The things we use, and live with
contain a little of us,
are changed
by familiarity.
But not forever,
because even things
are temporary.
So I was reminded of times past,
but also began
to see them as inanimate,
indifferent to the life
they once had served.
Still, it was soon enough to see
the ghost in the machine
leaking out.

There is a painting I always admired.
I know where it will hang;
but will I see his hand
straightening up
surreptitiously dusting?

The clothes will go to the Sally Ann,
where the down-on-their-luck
are grateful to dress
in suits, newly pressed,
a dead man's shirt and pants.

Given free,
no forgetting

no forgiveness asked.