I carry from childhood all this baggage:
Father’s violin in a black case,
A wooden plate with an inscription
To break bread with friends is best,
One narrow road
With a passing shadow of a horse and cart,
A wall marked with mold,
A child’s folding bed,
A vase painted with doves,
Objects
More durable than life,
A stuffed bird
On top of a beat-up cupboard,
Ah, and this huge
Pyramid of stairs and doors.
It’s not easy
To carry so much.
And I know that until the end
I won’t dispose of a single piece.
Until my wise mother
Comes from nowhere to nowhere
And says,
“Give it up, my darling daughter.
It makes no sense.”