This morning I found myself
sorting paperclips by size—
the way my mother taught me
in motel rooms across southern America,
organizing what little certainty
we could hold in our hands.

I’m on my own now, and I still wake
some nights with that familiar itch,
with this restlessness that whispers:
nothing here is permanent, child.
Not the dust on windowsills,
not the coffee stain on carpet,
not even this gravity
that holds us to one place.

I've spent years
trying to unpack this blessing:
how each goodbye taught me
to find home in the strangest things—
in the comfort of all my belongings
jammed haphazardly in my car,
in the methodical way I label
everything I own, as if naming
things would make them stay.

I handle each object
like a rosary bead, each dish
and book a meditation on what
we carry, what carries us.

Some collect seashells
or pressed flowers. I collect
empty spaces, fill them briefly
with my particular silence,
then leave them blessed
with a swelling, lingering
air of sentimentality.