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.