What is Left
As I look at,
ㅤ as I search through,
What is left…
Through the accumulation
The remains
The detritus
The detritus of eighty-four years
I wonder…
What meaning?
What meaning is hidden here?
What will I find?
What will I encounter?
Who?
Who will I encounter?
Each box I open…
Each item I lift…
Yields a question.
The question of why.
Why this?
What was it to you?
What does it tell me about who?
About who you…
Were?
For even in your absence,
ㅤ you remain.
Even as you are missed,
ㅤ you are present.
Each book,
ㅤ filled with bookmarks.
Each random paper,
ㅤ covered in notes.
Each yields the question.
The same question.
Who were…
You
I knew you.
A bit.
I walked with you.
A bit.
Yet,
ㅤ you were more.
More than I knew.
More than I could know.
And now I wonder…
Who were you?
What did I not know about you?
What will I discover?
What new thing will I find that I will…
Miss?
What mysteries are hidden?
What histories will be explained?
What new questions will arise?
Will I finally remember,
ㅤ will I finally know,
Who you were?
I as sift through the random bits of life you left behind,
ㅤ I will find you.
I will find you in…
What is left
to my mother Phyllis: August 14, 1935 to August 30, 2019