Not Spring Cleaning

It would be an error
to call this endeavor
spring cleaning.

Drawer after drawer,
closets, cupboards, shelves
filled with history,

memories, tangible objects —
clothing, spoons, sponges,
shoes, pencils, pliers —

too much of everything,
an overflowing attempt
to protect myself

from the death that happened,
the loss of dreams,
trauma in the walls,

the plans halted
midstream,
we were barely sixty;

from the efforts,
the heroic attempts,
the steady decline.

His shoes,
the ones he wore in winter,
lying beneath too many coats:

I take them into my arms
cradling each one
like stillborn twins

as I place them in a plastic bag,
haul them to Goodwill —
another man will wear them.

I am clearing space
more than cleaning it,
and spring is just a coincidence;

the time was right,
a new decade approaching,
living, more precious than ever,

begs to be proclaimed,
unshackled from false comfort —
mementos can grow like cancer

if you’re not careful.
Open space,
the absence of things

is a beauty all its own.
I welcome it,
and after weeks of shedding stuff,

it occurs to me:
this is it,
my own life,

as I untangle myself from the things,
the millions of things,
tying me up, weighing me down.

And like starting a new story
or perhaps a poem,
I will begin again.