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Poem

“You’ll be traveling light for a trip so long,
Don’t you think?” asked the voice in my head.
“As a matter of fact I’d prefer to prolong
This departure forever.” I said.

The conversation, though suitably cross,
Was nevertheless polite
And the gist of the urging was all but lost: 
No-one misses this flight. 

The choice to accept was anything but.
(There was never a mention of choice) 
And the prospect to go was macabre, somewhat,
For I couldn’t refute the voice.

The hour is always inopportune, 
But with this I could be consoled:
Some are scheduled to leave too soon.
At least I was left to grow old. 

So I gathered my thoughts and composure
Like piling leaves with a rake
And struggled to strive for some closure
By listing the things I would take.

I had amassed a great many things
In my eighty odd years as a hoarder
But the rules were clear. No man brings
Things across this border.

And so I conceded to narrow it down 
To the stuff I knew I could stash
And leave the rest to remain on the ground – 
The house and the car and the cash 

Because thought is decidedly warmer
Than a body of cold dead matter.
I gambled at least the former 
Would survive the demise of the latter.

So I gathered each photo and letter
Spreading memories out on the floor,
And thought I would do one better
While there was still time to make more.

I spent what I had on my bride,
And my time with my family and friends.
I took my foes aside
And, best as I could, made amends. 

For the love that you feel when you live
Is the stuff of the memories you make. 
So give all the things you can give
Because those are the things that you take.

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