Moving Up

Despite arranging for movers who have a four hour minimum for payment, Michael and I spent the evening packing boxes with books and dishes to deliver to the carriage house. Michael is very methodical and measured every piece of furniture and the wall space between windows, then drew a diagram of each room to plot out where everything will go. I would never do this. I don't even know how to use a ruler. I love that he is the opposite of me in this way.

April is National Poetry Month, and I've noticed that on facebook, many people are writing a poem a day and posting them in their notes. I haven't had two seconds to sit down, until now, but I'd like to share in the NPM spirit, so here is a poem I started writing after moving my mom's things out of my parent's old house in Texas.

this is called: unloading your clothes at the goodwill.

I handed your shirts in stacks,
the slight warmth of your body
still clinging to pilled fleece and fibers.
we cleaned your closet out in one fatal blow –
ordaining the racks of a thrift store with
designer jackets and heels,
cracked leather running shoes,
your black pants with the strawberry print.
It feels like I'm stealing from you,
giving your clothes to the poor.
Creating space between each of dad's polos,
an entire bar devoted to hangers.
I look for you in your bedroom behind the door,
speak to the wire mouths of empty hangers,
the carpeted floor where your bare feet
stood to pick out a shirt every day.
They only tell me you
don't live here anymore.

Journal scan, July 2004