Bind the boxes, methodically and emotionally void, label them with invisible ink:
Spice: the kitchen and its whispered stories of health unknown
Sepia: bundled writing and elderly photographs ripe with dust
Spoons: random, material, and stolen for recollection of frail moments with sustenance
And then there are these memories, miscellaneous and hostilely out of place,
Recklessly imploring to be sorted, unscripted, and digested raw;
They creak out of the cracked wood as it is roughly caressed with bristles;
Overflowing from the trashcan, refusing to be relinquished;
Protesting necrosis like spiders crawling out of the sinks already flushed with bleach;
Hanging onto these cold bones like brittle skin on wired coat hangers.
So they are reluctantly given a home in pillow cases rarely used,
Fragments stuffed in knapsacks labeled for storage in separate locations,
Others drowned in alcohol and nicotine to assist with the heartburn of indigestion.
Settle with the scattered pieces – hollow them out and try to breathe
For they just will never come back together whole.