I wander through the rooms
as if I were a ghost
choosing this and that.
What to take, what to leave
what I will need, what holds meaning.
But to me alone
and not to those who follow.
A book – read yesterday
to read perhaps tomorrow.
A book – the small child kept throughout the years
and that I am loath to part with.
A book by an unforgotten love.
How difficult to live in the now
knowing that tomorrow none of this will matter.
Perhaps I can store what I hold dear
in the closet of forgotten things
hoping that someone sometime will open the cupboard
and remember.
Erika Bizzarri 
A lovely haunting poem, Erika!
J
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Erika. I love this poem and I’m looking forward to following your writings.
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I find “the closet of forgotten things” one of your best images. When we discussed it before, you even told me and Margaret that there was a poetic Italian word for this, which is music to the ears of a hoarder like me: dimenticatoio. How can one not be in love with a language like that? Or with a writer who so viscerally understands this concept?
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