Cleaning Out the Closet of a Dead Relative

by Basia Bryan

 

I’ve seen humanity in the form
of eight identical obituaries.

Hidden in a polka dot-painted playroom
and tucked away in a shoebox.

How intentionally they must have been saved,
over and over and over and over.

Not wanting a scrap of memorial
to be wasted in someone else’s trash can.

A poem I wrote for you eight years ago
still lives in the envelope it was shipped in.

Children’s chalk drawings have remained untouched,
undisturbed for the last thirteen years.

A black trunk full of Beanie Babies,
What happened misspelled on the wall.

I had my first drink in this house,
before the floorboards began to warp.

Back when I thought it was water
and I was too shy to ask.

I think we both know that we don’t know
when we will see each other again.

Because growing up is a train,
barreling inevitably down the tracks.

 

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