I'm going through old desk drawers.
Changing rooms, moving down to the basement.
I must finally be a twentynothing after all these years.
I'm going through old cards,
Things I never had the heart to throw away.
My mom calls me a pack rat,
Says I'm a hoarder.
Maybe she's right,
But I still can't fault myself.
I pack away memories, hoard treasures of information and sentiment.
The base layer of sediment for my being.
In one drawer I find an old model airplane,
From an erector set when I was young.
I remember building it with my dad--
The propellor still turns.
How could I throw it away?
Even now, I think I'll keep it.
And look on it, some years hence,
And remember, as I do now.
I have dozens and dozens of cards.
Birthdays, graduations, christmases, milestones, achievements.
In them I read emotion poured out,
Words too sappy for speech,
Too thick and viscous.
In cards they flow like fine wine,
Aged perfectly.
I have old poems,
Written seven years ago and more.
Hundreds and hundreds of them.
In them I see leaves of growth.
Old friends are enshrined within the ancient artifacts of these dark burial tombs;
I open them and reminisce fondly.
These things are proof that I was here,
That I existed,
More so than my bones could ever be.
They show a person, a being--
A life.
Inanimate objects are no less alive than we, dear friend.
They are endowed with our spirit,
And their memories will long outlast our corporeal selves.
Pack away your memories,
Hold them close.
They are not trash,
Despite whatever your mom might say.
