In just the first half of this year 
my brother and his wife bought a house
my parents sold theirs – the inevitable downsize –
and I signed a new rental lease
          on yet another divorced person apartment.
Three factions of family
in three very distinct 
stages of life.
So much of the remaining inventory from the sprawling family “compound,” as we called it,
conveniently shifted to my brother’s first house;
just as my parents transported so many well-loved things to my now-former house
just four years ago,
          when my life had a very different hue.  
I am now nearly nauseated by the thought of 
“Things;”
at least the kinds that go in cabinets and on shelves; 
as I’m filling boxes for the second time inside a year
I am rampantly relieving myself of so many
“Things”
that were packed, moved, and unpacked, only to sit.
I have no use for sitting,
not anymore.

This stage is one of moving, both
household and heart,
boxes and body,
and I resent what weighs me down.
What’s weightless, I think:
The river breeze on my closed eyes
those cirrus clouds against the powder blue sky 
that bunch of clover and yellow trefoil (the carpet of my childhood)
bird feathers and seashells as treasures
and time…
soul tended by the music
his hand in mine
sure-footed steps 
somewhere I’ve never seen.

6/15/26