CLEANING OUT A CLOSET
I come upon
a stack of old journals,
forgotten.
And suddenly
my cleaning-out decisions
carry more weight.
Easy
were the choices
involving
card stock,
photo paper,
the odd envelopes.
But this is something different.
Buried treasure.
Too long I’ve said
“Someday I’ll go back through…”
and am more into honesty now
regarding ‘someday,’
how it never comes.
I consider my options. Keep or part with.

STANDING ARM’S LENGTH AWAY
I flip a few pages,
stop randomly mid-journal,
run hand over page -
not leaning in,
but keeping my distance,
as if expecting
something to jump out and hurt me.
Is that written there anywhere,
that I have this expectation
a great deal of the time?
* * *
I THINK of THE PROMISE I elicited from him
years ago
“If something happens to me,
burn my journals.”
and how
it seems to me now unlikely
to happen by his hand.
It’ll have to be by my own.
And then this morning
a New York Times story
about a woman burning her diaries,
a whole 40 years’ worth!
But it’ll have to be an outdoor fire,
I calculate,
because last time I burned something in the fireplace
the smoke drifted back into the house.
I didn’t know
the chimney had been long-ago capped.
I cannot
for the life of me
recall what it was
I burned that day,
but the smoke
wafted through everything.
All that is true about us
does.
The minute hand says
I must go start dinner
and the decision is left hanging another day.
* * *
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