Moving Days
They used to tell me to travel light --
to pack 
only what was necessary.
The moving van in the driveway
was not big enough 
to hold
the souvenirs of a cluttered life.

"Clean out your closet," 
they reminded.
So, secrets, treasure boxes, and old bones 
had to go.
“Don’t take any junk 
along for the ride
only to have to sort it out later.”

“Choose wisely”, they would say.
while my overrun trash pile 
evolved 
from pictures to people,
until I couldn’t tell 
the difference
between memories and friends.

They told me 
to be deliberate and rational 
in my selection 
of stuff 
to carry with me on the road.


Every year we moved, 
my collection 
seemed to get smaller
and smaller 
until I couldn’t see
that I’d fallen into the lazy habit
of tossing everything away.

Is this how it started – 
is this the beginning 
of a woman undone by carelessness?
Is this how I learned 
to be so detached or 
to fear anything even semi-permanent?

They used to tell me 
to travel light.
From childhood I dutifully obeyed,
and in doing so 
became that thing
which I dreaded, 
cumbersome, 
an empty vessel for transport,
always waiting 
to be filled
with evidences of joys and pain,
never realizing 
that I carry just enough,
just what is necessary, 
but keenly aware 
that I have been only and always 
temporary.

Tonight,
I want rest in you.
I want to make my home
in your bed.
I want to pack my bags
heavy 
with all that I am,
have been,
will be,
catch the first outbound train,
and scatter my contents 
on the floor 
at your feet,
wallow in the mess I’ve made,
leave practical lessons 
far behind and 
learn to smile 
with you,
abandoning these moving days,
lost to a life
I no longer own.

07/17/2006

Posted on 07/18/2006
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