Somehow, every item
from our past life together
that leaves this new house
as no longer useful
or wanted,
feels like a betrayal,
a deliberate setting aside
of mounds of sorted memories
attached to such things
as freshly-washed lace curtains
stacked and packed
into a garbage bag
to take to St. Vincent’s thrift.
These adorned the big Vic
we rehabbed together—
curtains you wanted
and were right about,
for, at night,
after a long day at work,
the light from inside
shone through
their elegant homeyness
to beckon with anticipatory welcome.
But now your light is gone,
absorbed into all Light,
and someone else could use these.
In this new home
with my new husband
I must be practical
and let these leftover
pieces of you
go.
In truth, we acquired way too much
to fill the empty space between us.
To keep too many of our things
is a betrayal of sorts
to my new husband
and the new life I want
with him, brimming with love
and filled with light
where I am warm inside, at home,
instead of looking longingly in
from the car where I used to sit
alone in the dark
with only a hint of hope
of warmth inside
gleaming through these lace curtains.
So I shoulder the bag,
like I did most of our life’s responsibilities,
and, slamming the trunk
with audible relief,
drive off toward a new day.