Heirlooms
When she died,
her possessions lived the more,
memories glistening in crystal,
served on bone china,
ticking in the works
of a souvenir wall-clock.
Even the most useless of her things,
like the shoe with broken heel,
a scratched Andy Williams album,
were difficult to toss,
felt like the most grievous insult
when they were bundled in green bags.
Some things found new homes
though more out of duty than of need.
For she lived her life
without accumulating anything of value
except, that is, for the life itself.
We have a doll that she was given as a child,
to be passed on eventually, I expect,
to the offspring we do not have.
It lies, buried between blankets, in an attic trunk.
When tipped over, it says “Mama.”
Famous last words, in this instance.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in the Tau, Studio One and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Naugatuck River Review, Examined Life Journal and Midwest Quarterly.