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?
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.