The Things We Carry

The things we carry

shoved hastily into drawers that stick

hidden in the back of the closet

in the basement 

under the stairs

in the pockets of pants

we refuse to wear

If we can’t see them,

maybe they’ll disappear?

They lie there nudging us

a whiff of mildew

something unattended

tossing our night dreams

like sand in our socks

I was reminded of my mother today

my inner voice, her assessing tone

I am a woman grown

and yet…

The things we carry

those we go digging for,

those that offer themselves unannounced

The way a kingfisher spins me

into childhood wonder,

the shape of a cloud recalling picnics

scratchy red wool blanket 

covering still wet grass

the family, side by each

gazing up, open palms sun warmed

That first dandelion

sharp tang of milky sap

peeled stem curling

ringlets around our fingers

daisy chains gracing our crowns

I hold all memories

soft as cattail flower heads

and sharp as gravel

We can’t choose what we carry

We can choose to haul out

those things we’d rather not

air them 

to the wide sky

watch them sail like kites

refold them again when they return

as they must

They too have clothed us

though the fit restrictive, uncomfortable

the colours garish, embarrassing

The things we carry

transform

with how they are held