This may be the last year
we have a tree for Christmas.
It’s not like when the children were young
and stood on chairs to reach the top with tinsel.
So many things become meaningless
when disassociated from their past.
Second hand stores are crammed with
Mother’s teapots (chipped lid)
Father’s hand tools (dull blades worn thin)
Grandma’s hand crocheted doilies (small tea stain on the edge)
all abandoned by survivors who wonder
“Why were they keeping these things?”
I don’t want to be so busy curating the story of my past
that I have no time to create my future.
I want to let go.
I rarely pick wildflowers anymore.
A fleeting memory of them blooming where they grow
infinitely more satisfying than a the longer,
sadder memory of them slowly dying in a vase.
Let the liberation begin.