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