There comes a time when the new is old.
Seasoned aging constantly reminds:
It’s time to let go.
Please, I’m not letting go of life –
there’s still too much to do, too much yet on my agenda
while octogenarian challenges still nourish me
offering renewable energy for my emeritus career
working with words, words yet to be written.
But my collected cache of yesterday’s boxed memories,
dusty now and stacked in attic and cellar,
musty now in gloomy storage,
taints the ambience of my living space
as tomorrow’s unpredictable tenure tips towards me.
It’s time to let go.
What of this trove once found worthy of retaining?
I may need this one sometime.
Wonderful articles within hundreds of bound pages.
Letters to be treasured. Letters to be shunted to garbage.
Old worn coats, sweaters, trousers? Who would want them?
Crippled appliances, gifted mementoes, redundant gadgets.
Scanning, reading, evaluating could be my total remaining career.
I faint at the thought.
Let the dead (ideas, journals, tarnished trinkets) bury their dead.
Jewels or junk? Does it matter?
To me? To those who sweep up after me?
Today’s rationalization:
This stuff, lifetime accumulations, somehow defines me.
Tomorrow, whenever tomorrow finally comes,
all of this – joyfully or sadly -- will be disposable.
I may not be allowed to pause and suffer the humiliation.
It’s time to let go.
When? How?
Wait, just a minute, please…. I want to look again..
Time! The dumpster cometh.
