The Secret Value of Things
They are not important in themselves,
the odds and ends on the table.
A few bobbins of thread. A typewriter
about the same vintage as yourself.
A spare paintbrush in need of cleaning.
None of it important or valuable,
the every day detritus of a life
in the middle, clues to that life, clues
that only tell a smattering of the tale,
but clues nonetheless.
Things. Most of them with little value
save the stories that go with each one.
About this poem.
So a local politician came by the house this evening to drop off a yard sign. (I had asked for a sign, never expecting him to bring it himself.). The house, particularly my desk, was something of a mess.
After he left, I wondered about the impression he got, then realizing, without the context, it would not matter what he thought – He’d be wrong.
We are our stories, not our things.