december

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.