Version 2
Packing Up
When they come to pack up my things,
they will notice the disorder, careless cleaning,
dust in the corners, books in piles sprouting papers,
clothes that must be laundered before they can be given away.
Is my busy messiness a refusal to accept the cutting of my thread?
They’ll see the letters, cards, photos I saved to cement myself to life like a barnacle.
Maybe they’ll find themselves in a picture with me,
and feel the rush of recollections, like bubbles,
and a sadness, like the fear of drowning,
that will make them hold their breath.
When I packed up my mother’s things,
I was surprised to see she had put everything in order,
clothing clean and folded, papers filed, the bill for her burial marked paid.
She had gotten rather confused at the end. Had someone come to help her?
I don’t think so. She had done it all herself. A gift to me.
She knew I’d be a mess. I’m sure she believed that she
was setting a good example, trying to teach me
the rightness of acceptance, of letting go.
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Edits:
S1L4: clothes that will have to be laundered before they can be given away. > clothes that must be laundered before they can be given away.
S1L5: Is my busy messiness a refusal to accept the cutting of my life’s thread? > Is my busy messiness a refusal to accept the cutting of my thread?
Version 1
Packing Up
When I die, and they come
to pack up my things,
they will notice the disorder,
careless cleaning, dust in the corners,
books in piles sprouting papers,
clothes that will have to be laundered
before they can be given away.
I would be embarrassed if I were still around
to feel shame. But look how busy I was!
My messiness might seem to be a refusal
to accept the cutting of my life’s thread.
They’ll find my saved letters, cards, photos.
Maybe they’ll find themselves
in a picture with me, and remember
that fleeting, captured moment,
plunge into the pool of memories,
feel the rush of recollections,
like bubbles, and a sadness,
like the fear of drowning
that will make them hold their breath.
Maybe they will sit down, exhale,
and try to feel me there with them.
When I packed up my mother’s things,
I was surprised to see
that she had put everything in order,
clothing clean and folded, papers filed.
She had gotten rather confused at the end,
so I had expected a bit of chaos.
Had someone come to help her?
I didn’t think so. She had done it all herself.
A gift to me. She knew I’d be a mess.
She thought, I’m sure, she was throwing me a lifeline,
trying to teach me the rightness of acceptance.