Hoarding

My children tell me I hoard,
and it could be they are right—
clothing, makeup, shoes,
handbags, memorabilia. 
Yesterday my husband 
asked if I deleted bad photos,
and I said I rarely bother.
You never know if
you will use the right comer,
the edge of a moment
when light blinks at the tip
of a milkweed so perfectly,
you hold your breath, center,
press gently. You can

crop the rest of it out if you’d
like, but you cannot replace
these seconds: how you felt
when shadows of an unexpected
flock roused a half-awake mountain, 
or the first time your baby 
had a belly laugh. I guess since I

have enough footwear, I can afford to 
give some away now. And an overflow 
of joy from this fine and quiet morning.
This, I offer, a shy gift to anyone 
who might find it useful. Someone else
who absorbed a lacking early on,
who presently needs a wreath of 
luminescence, vine of hope to hang
on a familial door: welcome sign,
lavender, balsam, strong twine  
and wire. Promise and assurance 
that this is a place of peace. 

Katherine Mercurio Gotthardt, copyright June 15, 2024, all rights reserved