Manically I go through box after dusty box in my closet as if flames are licking at my fingers.
What was once mere clutter in my over-stuffed hideaway, needs to be given or thrown away. Now.
I look at these now disposable items with weary and tired eyes of dull green.
I have been awake since early morning;
It looks like I am abandoning my life; life as I know it now.
I am just changing it to focus more on me.
Is it because I feel I am being abandoned that I take things and stuff them into one of seven white trash bags?
Is anger really depression turned inward?
Those sentimental snuggles of the past, the hot tickles of laughter against my warm neck;
I feel nothing now.
I am being left, we are all moving on
and I question for the first time, where all my love and devotion, went.
My daughter is a dark mystery, my son, a stranger, separating.
Tonight I feel used and sorry for myself to be surrounded by silent, awkward strangers.
Sometimes I want to shout “who ARE you?” but I stay silent, trying to accept and acknowledge
the vagrant mysteries of life.
I can’t do more than that.
I want to get ahead of the start of the race, I am in position before they stand up.
Sweat dribbles down my old, soft pink T shirt,
my hair is in an angry ponytail pulled tight, strands of gray and white wiry hair are like lit candles in silent darkness.
I feel unhappy, I say I want more fun.
There are only so many times you can say that
before it because a slow, steep burn of a salty secret.
I already have plans for new skills and new habits and a location change in the future.
I was young once too, I think
but we are all old now.
I have already packed a box of mementos from my children’s childhood,
taken from my inner sanctum of sweet sentimentality.
I will hand them over to my children like an Olympic medalist running with the torch.
Here I sit, surrounded by notes and pens and drawing pads and old
photographs and letters that I have saved; now dissolving and crackling with a light touch.
It is time to let all these things go. It is time to move ahead and change.
Maybe I will keep a few sentimental things in a box for myself, just a few small morsels of sacred sweetness.
There is a new box for my deceased father’s old things that I cannot part with; I will put it in the corner of our musty basement
so I don’t trip over his memories several times, every single day.
His absence, like a gaping raw wound that never completely closes.
The stuffed animals that used to give me comfort, even as an adult, are now gone,
I am giving them away to children
who deserve to smother them with sloppy kisses and love.
They mean nothing to me anymore, I look at them and I don’t feel pleasure
but at least I don’t feel pain.
I’m finding it hard now to feel anything.
I could eat silky milk chocolate or dark chocolate with currants if i wanted to
but I don’t think it will make me feel any better.
This is pain I need to feel and get through.
I am giving away many books, enough to fill a small bookstore.
Starting fresh without all these things I do not really need.
I have my photographs, my slow -motion technicolor memory.
I don’t need much else anymore
but I hope that deep scarlet arm of regret does not clench me and wake me up with stabs of pain
when the morning sun tuns alive, with color, again.