Feeling sentimental over boxes;
Boxes of knick-knacks,
Clothes, cards, old gifts.
I cannot let go of these things;
Each one reminds me of the past.
The skirt I wore to my first day of college,
Folded over a stack of tickets;
Cinema tickets, train tickets, exhibition tickets,
Faded ink and forgotten films and journeys.
Forgotten until I go through these boxes.
I have kept every letter ever written to me;
Handwritten, with scribbles and doodles and stickers.
However I cannot keep every book I have read,
As I have filled the attic already-
My bookcase is overflowing too.
“Just use an E-reader”, you say,
Then I will not remember the first time
The book was opened,
Neither will I enjoy the smell of its pages.
Now I try to find the balance
For my home:
Between clinical, impersonal, empty,
And a hoarder’s paradise:
A museum of my own life,
Stuffed to bursting with things I never use,
Because they are not for using;
Yet they are mine and I hold them dear.