The Afterlife of Things

 

Blooms on the Milkwood tree outside my mother's window.

I

One last time she scrubs the steps and shines the brass,

cleans out the cracks, picks off the weeds and grass,

tries critical eyes, but that’s clearly a fail.

Tomorrow’s the first viewings for the sale.

And there’s no turning back if the deal goes through.

She doesn’t quite know what exactly to do.

She was happy here, but happy elsewhere too.

 

Not the Typical GRWM Post

 

It’s been forever. It’s not been that long.

Half the things are scattered. The other half’s gone.

Faded fuel receipts. Cassettes of faded songs.

A phonebook full of numbers of long dead phones.

 

You are more than ready. No, you are not.

The whole has been refinished – walls, floors, cupboards.

You still see the old things at the same old spots.

The new, low height switches feel a tad awkward.

 

You still reach for them where they once used to be –

the switches, hooks and door knobs. And you still keep

skirting phantom footstools from muscle memory.

That too feels like something. Grief or its relief.

 

Painted over now, someone’s height markings

on the kitchen wall. Some tiny growth rings.