Memory Box

What do you do with the things people collect?

That kaleidoscope they emptied together, so full of sounds and suitcases and bees besides all the glittering broken bangles making images come alive

Those leaves she collected to bookmark the stories she read, hoping they would become real around and within her

That laughter out in the garden the wild cherry blossoms brightened and bent toward

That annoying habit of using his one favourite word each month, as he said

I’m going to shove my things into the room

I was bedazzled by the comic timing of it all

I want to eat some grub and buy some tuck for later

I always wish to help my chum with everything he needs.

What do you do with these things? These things that people collect.

The shoe box he used to keep receipts, paper clips and poems written on post-its, hoping to colour up the monotony within.

The old newspapers she used for bookshelves, keeping the botoxed faces downward and the pictures of landscapes facing the books that she held so dear

The stencils she bought and used on everything that had a blank—just so it would cover up the blankness she felt in the 9-5 job

The football matches he screamed during, wondering if he could do that in a glasshouse office

The way she flirted over a pint of beer, making men hate her

Who knew, she had dream catchers to help her sleep every night?

So, what do you do with these things that people collect?

What do you do with the pain of the beauty of quirks

The way he wiped each finger delicately on a tissue while bruised knuckles exhibited a hardiness in the boxing ring

The way she lay for days in bed in crinkly pajamas while the world outside never saw her without a pair of heels

The way he would allow vodka shots to let him dance while any day at the metro he was seen giving in to the crowd, always the last one inside.

The way he obsessed over a bicycle while expensive wines and liquers were what the world would remember him for.

The way he let out cries of pain, singing songs of love, singing songs of despair while all we saw was a man in hiking gear, droning out names of birds and trees.

What do you do with these things that people collect?

What do I do with these things?

When all these people leave or are gone, these things are all I have left.

I can only write about them, reminisce them and push myself.

Tell myself, it’s okay. These things can keep life at bay and smiles up front.

I can wait, leave this poem incomplete.

For someone, something, someday to finish it for the lines I collect.