When I die

then slowly all the things I’ve done

will disappear.

Things I’ve made will come undone, all this

sewing was for what?

Photographs of me and you

will scatter and become scarce and

old, just a note on the back with

our names and maybe a date

left to tell our story.

We’ve saved so many books, but

they, too, will go somewhere,

the Goodwill maybe –

they’ll be homeless again.

Page by page the words I write

will lose their meaning and

lay in the attic till

someone clears them out.

Our house will be someone else’s and

they’ll paint over our paint and

replace our windows and

remodel our walls till

it won’t remember.

by Cher Bibler