Eternal Life
When my untidy ball of words and emotion
finally rolls to a stop, so much will be left unsaid.
And it will not matter if I was black or white,
brown or yellow or rainbow-colored.
It will not matter if I am Christian, Muslim, or Jew—
or any conglomeration thereof.
I will not be—
at least in my present state—
and what is left will be disposed of
by those who come after me.
What do I leave behind?
Evidence of things I hold dear:
piles of ordinary books, china, cut glass, crystal ,
turned wood bowls, particularly lovely old books,
maps and pictures, and precious photographs...
all the things I found beautiful in their own way.
Will they mean anything to anyone
after I am gone? Unlikely.
What do I do with my accumulated life?
The casually gathered items
that fill my house and brighten my days?
Who is willing to accept my memories?
Dare I even ask that of someone?
I am reminded of a book
(is there anything that does not remind me of a book?)
whose hero, a so-called “divvy”, has a sixth sense for antiques.
Somehow, he can feel the love and emotion
a craftsman expends in the creation of an object.
Might there be some person
whose heart can sense the loving touches
I spend on my Blackwell Herbal,
my beautiful bowls, my fragile crystal,
my china, my books?
Might I believe, somehow,
in eternal life?
