I am twenty-five and I’ve moved
back in with my parents
My father follows me around
the house, turning off lights.
Tonight he is organizing things
in jars: pine cones of varying sizes,
wooden spools of thread, antique
buttons, clear marbles and pieces
of shell. When I was a girl we
scoured beaches for agates, pumice,
and smooth flat rocks. Driftwood
shaped like the spread wings
of geese. Anything we could see through.
Now the shelves where I sleep
are lined with jars. Wheat pennies
and wine bottle corks. Fourth of July
buttons, and the rubber wheels
of Matchbox cars. I am fond
of the small celluloid cows
and sheep. I know how it hurts
to lose. Save everything.