Possession - Oct 13 2023

 

Possession

Oct 13. 2023

Not a hoarder, exactly,

but in a long life

stuff accumulates.

Unintentionally.

Incrementally.

Imperceptibly.

And impervious to reason.

A process of accretion.

Like a crustacean's shell

that's supposed to be shed

but keeps growing instead.

Until the floors creak

joists bend

closets overflow,

and in the end

the entire mess

is left to the descendants,

overwhelmed

by all the dust-covered treasures

no one wants.

Knick-knacks and bric-a-brac,

mementos from your travels.

Yard sale steals

bargains priced to clear.

And discarded stuff

picked-up at the curb

by a sharp-eyed couple

who know a good find.

Practical people

who were raised to be frugal

and abhor waste.

All earnestly squirrelled away

while discarding nothing;

because someday

it will surely be of use,

and if not

can always be cannibalized.

I am horrified

that I, too, might leave so much behind.

So I live a minimalist life;

making do,

and anything new

means something old must go.

Bare white walls.

Sparsely furnished rooms

with a few tasteful objects.

And hardwood floors

you can actually see;

revealed and refinished

to a darkly burnished gleam

after the ratty old carpet

was stripped.

No clutter

impulse buys

frivolous indulgence.

No dumping

on my overwhelmed descendants,

who will have to empty my house,

scratching their heads

at whatever could have possessed me.

And on a long suffering earth,

the small footprint

of modest man

who accepts his insignificance

and the burden of privilege.

After all, what gives me the right

to possess all this?

And who understands

that a life built on things

is meaningless;

that on your deathbed

all that precious stuff

will be the last thing that comes to mind,

little more than junk

carted off to the dumpster.