Some things are like—no,
I still can’t part with them.
The plaster cast of my face
from making masks in 2002.
The white & blue striped cloth shower curtain
(one of the first pieces of grownup décor
I ever bought, from Restoration Hardware,
pleased with my taste and its quality)
that doesn’t go anywhere in this house.
We might move again someday!
(It might match
the new décor?)
The piece of lovely
(expensive!)
tapestried fabric
left over from re-covering
the vanity chair.
There’s enough for a whole new
seat.
What if I need to re-re-cover?
The skateboard sized for three-year-olds
that was a prop for a play in my first
festival—
Petra might grow into it,
or my son might like it, once he, you know,
gets born, and then
turns
three.
The (full) day-planner from when
I was so organized in college.
The medal I won at Burning Man.
The sexy shoes I never wear.
I pile them all together, thinking
if I just find the right storage solution
I will know to go and fetch these things
The year, the day, the minute
I need them.
I am certain
I will need them.
How much of this do I get to carry, in a lifetime?
How
do I make
enough
space?
And the voices of my sensible friends
the very pragmatic voices I do not need to consult to hear
The pity-filled but firm voices
implying sympathetic
shaking of heads
they say,
(though I don’t want to listen,
but if I cover my ears
I can read it on their lips)
Let it go,
let it
go,
let
it
go.
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