Tickets and flags, toys and games;
Stickers and bags, artwork in frames.
Things I collected, items for sport;
Seldom rejected – The last resort.
Cultivated in nooks, ‘stuff’ lingers, ‘stuff’ grows;
Curated scrapbooks: Little fingers, little toes.
Educational kits and playing cards;
Random magical tricks and ankle guards.
Pieces and bits, of all shapes and sizes;
Used paper clips and academic prizes.
Compulsively stored, all this documentation;
So long ignored, avoiding consideration.
Things might last forever, if they’re protected;
But is it so clever, if they’re rarely inspected?
What is the value, and what is the price,
Of committing your past, to the protection of mice?
To hold on is easy, to let go is hard;
Set sail on the free sea, ‘gear-up’ to discard.
Figurines with a past, balloons with no air;
In time they can’t last, and yet still… I care.
What should I waste, and what should I keep?
Here’s just a taste: Whatever is to become of poor little Shaun, the sheep?
It’s mental gymnastics, this effort of will:
To play ‘pick-up sticks’, to take the ‘red pill’;
But if I ignore it, it’s at my peril;
Let the march of time, reveal good or ill.
Old friends rediscovered, how could we have known;
Like love at last sight, bonds have strengthened and grown;
Curious and ironic, this vital all-in play:
Without the drive to go, there’d be less reason to stay!
An unconscious commitment, undoubtedly clear;
Leave that which is secure, leave that which is dear;
Not leaving the path – the path is behind, see?
It’s taking new turns, on which I can find… me.
Finally deliberation, must draw to a close;
To jump in the river, and see where it flows;
A day must be seized, to act, not intend…
It’s now in the past. My choice was real, in the end.
— December 2019
