National Poetry Month · personal

Objects– National Poetry Month Day 4

Spring cleaning.
I sort through possessions, sorting clothes
and books into boxes, slipping books back onto
shelves because I just can’t part with them even
though that title, I won’t ever read it again.

But I will pick up the book, run my finger over
the spine and remember reading it.
I’ll remember where I was, where I found it
what I learned from the pages.

I won’t be able to part with it.

My father’s guitar sits in the
back of my closet. I never open the
case. I don’t need it. I don’t even want it.
But I don’t speak to my father.
when I see his guitar I think of him.
I think of who he was when he traded a buddy
a six-pack of beer and twenty dollars. I think of the
young Marine, strumming chords.

I never knew that boy. But I think of a man that
read to me and with me. I remember making up
stories and laughing together. I touch the worn and
tattered case that I never open and remember the
father that no longer exists in the man I don’t know.

I have no use for it. I will never play it.

I won’t be able to part with it.

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