THE MEMORY OF STUFF
A brown tweed dress from Saks I saved months to buy.
A telephone operator toy set I begged my parents to get me for Christmas.
A note from my mom when I still lived at home with instructions on staying at the house alone while she worked.
A box of special Christmas cookies I made and sold for $5 back in 1961.
A rented Vespa in Italy, hard on my bum as we headed to Sorrento from Pisa.
A sailors hat worn when I was ten, one summer at the lake, when I rowed a boy around.
Do they have my feelings of fondness and become something more?
Do they wait to be used?
Do they remember longingly our relationships?
Are they happy to be remembered?
Do they sit waiting for one more jaunt into the world?
When we die, do they weep silently for us?