Eternal Life

 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?