Your Little Museum
It is late in the evening. You have the lights dim
as you read. At the other end of the sofa
are bookshelves and reminders that you have lived.
Pictures of children. A Fossil or two.
A pair of your parent’s candlesticks.
The shelves are dominated by a collection
of leather books, a month by month gift
from a father in law you loved and love still
long past his death.
A painting or two of places visited.
You finished the bookshelves yourself
and they have followed you from home to home
for nearly three decades. Nothing special.
Plain Pine. Strong. Scarred. Oh so functional.
Like you, they travel well and adapt to the places
they are dragged, settling in to hold the next round
You and the woman you love found the lamp
in an antique shop a few towns away. It needed work,
a bit of new wiring, and a new shade, this one
an oddity, made of mica with its layers of amber
warming the light. A bit of romance.
The two of you bought the sofa as well.
It was a gift for an old woman by her children.
She immediately died. Who wants furniture from the dead
like that? Apparently us. It is long
and wide enough for cuddling and company.
For a minimalist like you, it almost seems too much.
But that is your life. Full and rich and for now at least,
safe and peaceful, full of history and full of the now,
blessed by unexpected love from woman and God and children,
by strangers become friends, blessed
by work that touches more than the bank, but your soul,
with time left over to create and ponder,
and on nights like this, remember it all
even the bloody parts, in gratitude.
You smile at your little museum,
wondering as you always do, what will be next?
and wondering, in a life as full as yours,
where you will put it.
About this poem
I took the picture a few nights ago as I sat on the sofa reading. It was one of those “There’s a poem in this one” kind of shots you take from time to time, not knowing what the poem might be, or when it might come to you.
I got lucky. This one only took a few days to incubate.