Betsy Holleman Burke
Thirty-eight years, a family home, every room filled with things I love
two attics, a basement, garage, a magnificent horde of possessions.
I ride a wave, a tsunami of stuff, a big blue can packed with Hallmark love
Happy Birthday, Mommy, I adore you, Babe, the most important possessions.
Books, fat albums, a million CDs, old eight track movies we watched with love
Do they make you happy, my grandson asks, quotes the guru of possessions.
Tiny dresses with velvet bows, bought for a daughter with a heart of love
Please stop sending boxes, she begs, I have too many possessions.
My son takes everything fishing-related, surf rods return him to days beloved
with the father he lost too young, too soon, that father the king of possessions.
File cabinets explode with letters from Camp, prone rifle targets shot with love
an abandoned sport once they are home, collecting blue trolls as possessions.
Letters from friends, now missing or dead (“Dear Betsy”), a taste that silverfish love
their lacy patterns, artistic bent, a surprise in this cache of possessions.