~drift~

I took the stack of ‘not for sale’ notes

from the kitchen counter

I float freely, clutching them

wondering which of all

my memories

will get packed away

or $1.99’d at the yard sale

who puts monetary value

on mothering moments

tears, grubby-fingered gifts?

The sandy Texas whelk shell,

the lone star-shaped button

from that one Marshall’s skirt,

will these be for sale?

They haven’t even touched the shelves

of my tattered friends, dog-earred, wrinkled.

Is it all reduced to trash to be

talked and hashed over?

The Post-Its crumple a bit

in my filmy grip.

I peek out the sun-bleached,

red gingham curtains and see

a crowd of crow-clad mourners,

truly all that’s left behind that’s-truly true,

all that love huddled on that hill.

All the dregs, threads, life

will be packed up, garbage-bagged.

The Post-Its flutter to the floor.

I’m back in my pine box.

Songs being sung.

Soul not sold, bought with blood,

drifting off.

Memories Post-It-seared on Souls.

Not for sale, ever.

~A.M. Pine

{If you are interested, read here for this series Piece #1 and origin story.}