Inventory of What Remains

I.

Three winters ago, I labeled my grief

and stacked it in the hallway closet—

winter coats, unmailed letters,

a jar of buttons without their shirts.

I mistook preservation for healing.

  Salt does not forget the ocean.

  Wood remembers the shape of fire.

  The body keeps minutes

  no clock can translate.

I was diligent in my archiving.

I called it maturity.

II.

There is a staircase inside me

that leads to rooms I outgrew

but never emptied.

Dust rehearses the choreography

of light through blinds.

I open a drawer—

find versions of myself

folded like old maps,

creases permanent as fault lines.

The tectonic plates of want

shift without permission.

III.

Some mornings I drink water

and imagine it polishing me from within.

The heart is mostly muscle.

Muscle responds to repetition.

Again—

  forgive.

Again—

  release.

Again—

  begin.

The discipline of tenderness

is less glamorous than fury,

but it builds better shelter.

IV.

In the grocery store aisle

I choose fruit by scent,

pressing gently for ripeness.

How strange that I never learned

to do this with joy.

I mistook intensity for aliveness,

mistook noise for truth.

V.

If I could distill survival

into something portable,

it would not be armor.

It would be a small orchard

growing in the sternum—

branches patient,

roots fluent in darkness,

bearing sweetness

without asking permission.

VI.

Tonight, at the border crossing between

who I was

and who I am rehearsing,

no clerk waits.

Only a mirror,

fogged by breath,

and the quiet instruction:

  Carry what nourishes.

  Leave what performs.