LAST DAY
Cardboard boxes stand stacked against the wall.
The basement is already empty.
There is no spare time.
We must clean and polish and make things shipshape.
The latest owners will be soon here
claiming their keys and their rights of entry.
Empty bottles of old memories stand disordered:
quarrels, wild words, making friends again;
my mother’s body slumped at the bottom of the stairs,
or lying senseless in front of the television;
her bloodless face pale above the stretcher
as they carry her away.
We launch a last desperate hunt through the empty house.
How many memories must we leave behind
with that one last look through the closing door?
How much of our former lives can we capture?
NOTE:
Another Golden Oldie from the last century, the last millennium. This one appeared in The Antigonish Review. I dedicate it to all those who are about to sell their houses and move, and particularly to my friends David and Ana.
rogermoorepoet 
“How many memories must we leave behind, with that one last look through the closing door.”
A touching poem. The aforementioned lines in particular stand out for me, a question so many people have and will encounter. It’s relatable on many levels. A lovely piece. Thanks for sharing.
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Thank you. It was a difficult time: crossing the Atlantic, selling everything up, returning home with so little. It always felt like a shipwreck to me. It’s true that we survived … but we lost so much. Flotsam, jetsam, bobbing on the waves and washing away.
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The pathos of no return invoked perfectly
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It was a strange feeling. We flew home to Wales to sell my father’s house. It was a very sad time. I’ve always thought of it as a shipwreck: so much lost, so little retained. I have some very vivid memories of those final days.
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We really don’t know what we have until it is gone. A cliche but true.
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R: David and Ana are selling their home? Chuck
On Mon, Sep 26, 2016 at 9:29 AM, rogermoorepoetdotcom wrote:
> rogermoorepoet posted: ” LAST DAY Cardboard boxes stand stacked against > the wall. The basement is already empty. There is no spare time. We must > clean and polish and make things shipshape. The latest owners will be soon > here claiming their keys and their rights of entry. Emp” >
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You’d have to check with them, but they may be thinking about it. I now Clare and I are thinking the same way: maybe sell up and move to Ottawa.
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I love the “cardboard” imagery in this! How many memories must we leave behind? Excellent.
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Rereading these “golden oldies” I to wonder “how much of our former lives can we (re-)capture”? There are days when so much seems to slip away so fast. I notice too a tremendous difference in my early writing and y later poems. Has my style ever changed!
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