It means something to us now,

this comfortable clutter;

we are attached to it all.

It means more than it should, probably,

takes on life,

keeps us company.

A stranger would come in and wonder.

As years pass by, it becomes more precious,

each picture on the wall,

each figurine.

We cry if one is broken,

as if we have lost a child.

We mourn for a period,

as if we have lost a lover.

Every book a friend, even ones

we don’t like so well.

So many memories,

so many things,

it holds this little world of ours together.

by Cher Bibler