i stand in front of my closet and touch the sleeves
of dresses that stopped fitting me years ago.
i have a hard time letting go.
a checklist of things i have kept:
every card i’ve ever received,
pebbles from a Venetian sidewalk,
flowers pressed between book pages
from a bouquet i was scared to let die.
i have ticket stubs stacked up in drawers,
textbooks piled high on bookshelves,
shoeboxes, school assignments,
small hands curled into tight fists.
if i lose all these pieces of me,
will anything be left?
museums must be so tired
of only having room
for dead memories.