(c) 8/7/2021
To mother it all has equal value—
the loose, stripped screw,
plastic Happy Meal toys,
a pharmaceutical bottle filled with teeth.
But from which of five mouths?
All of it mixed into boxes
alongside recipes never used
instead of TV dinners—
unopened greeting cards,
clipped articles
unrelated to any of us.
How could anyone find memory
in these scraps?
Here—decades of gift cards.
a growing stack.
Like other sensual experiences
she chose to miss,
these are now wallet-sized milestones
of the economy—,
restaurants closed
in the last recession,
or the one before it.
The bathroom cabinet filled with
soured cologne,
makeup—glumpy, dried—
my sister and I bought her
in junior high.
Mother wanted
but was startled
by touch.
In a sock drawer,
the golden apple paperweight
I bought her
with my first paycheck—
still in its red velveteen bag.
Every table stacked with paper.
Nothing I offered
was ever used.
Now she is being moved
from four stories to one room.
She prepares to dig in--
to fight the neighbors
over noise, parking,
property lines:
those goddamn bastards
For years she has forgotten
to clean the litter.
The floorboards need replacing.
Mother imagines every trinket,
every scrap will go with her—
even the shoes she wore
at her wedding seventy years ago,
now disintegrating.
She refuses to believe
we would be callous enough
to send the hoard—
unwanted—
to a landfill.
