I have a black and white photo of laundry dancing on the line.

A poem about the different sound a spoon makes compared to a fork when dropped into their slots.

I have recipes, a sewing basket with a bit of a baby blanket in it.

Feathers and cloth for costumes.

Boxes of children’s school work.

A purple chair.

An old hockey stick for unjamming the hinge of the attic door.

An ode to a tree down the street.

A cat’s collar.

A time capsule buried in a stone wall.

I am shedding these things.

They are so good, have meant so much.

I don’t know what’s next, yet I keep pushing outward, even as I hold these things inside.