Things are just things,
and it’s not wise to become too attached.
But sometimes things
are more than things.
The clay bead necklace my oldest made age seven
resides in my jewelry box
next to the painted macaroni bracelet
and some seashells.
The nightgown hanging in the winter clothes closet
used to belong to my great grandma.
Sometimes I can almost smell her hugs
if I hold it up to my face.
It is still too long for me
and covers my chilly toes perfectly.
Photo albums of times past,
people long gone who I still love.
They changed me, and my silly
is a good reason to hang on.
The rocking chair that I put my dry-cleaning on
once belonged to my great-great grandmother.
The runners are dog-chewed,
but the old oak still glows
when the sun hits it just right,
and when it, of occasion, sways too and fro
for no good reason,
I assume I have an otherworldly visitor.