Thinking about them is like
opening the door to the hall closet.
Things just fall out and I find that
I am too full; the old and new
are a jumble. The childhood
and adulthood a messy pile of memories;
indispensable and Goodwill ready.What is essential to keep is obscured
by too much stuff. What do I love and
what loved me? What is the trash
of a lifetime that I can let go of?

The sisters were complex women
so different, so damaged, so loving,
so loved, so gone.

When I open that door
Things fall out and I have to
pick them up
and there’s never any time
to ask the question of what I still need,
want or love, because I’m in a hurry,
coming and going and I’ll think
about it another day. When it’s raining.

And then it rains, snows, sleets.
The chilled wind blows through my spine
and the day of cleaning arrives;
there is no avoiding it now.
It is a matter of my own life
and death; to separate
from the damage. To clean out
my closet. To put on my good coat
and find my own way home.