Tagged: storage

one year later, there’s

one year later, there’s
enough packing paper to
wrap up your name, store

it on a hard-to-reach shelf
for someone else to take down

memories are the

at the tip of departure,

at the tip of departure,
do memories begin to
curl protectively,
winding and
rewinding with
enough care so
that they can be
stored and retrieved
without tangling?
or do they suddenly
dangle loosely,
prepare nets by
the shore, gently
undulate with each
crease, believing
that there is no
other way
to return?

my mother is stacking

my mother is stacking
dried persimmons neatly
into a Ziplock bag for the
season that i will be
away. as she works, she
expertly binds the nature
of the persimmon to
my memory – storage,
dosage, usage – with grace,
she braids into my
heartstrings the lore
of generations of mothers
sending forth their wisdom
ahead of a fixed departure