September 4, 1992
The day I moved from 250 White to 999 Bookcliff Ave.

OK, Zena,
You wanted me to write my play on words

Moving Memories

That's what I call putting things in boxes,
books, too;
putting them,
in another box
to be moved to another place -
moving my memories.

Divesting too,
and finding it harder to relinquish,
Lord, such a word,
more recent acquisitions,
than it was to fill five boxes with treasures for the children
a dozen years ago.

Why do tears come
to think of leaving a pink ceramic vase
Pat's mother made years ago?
Of course, it once held daisies
for an Easter brunch in Minnesota.

Why should it hurt from this distance
to leave a round straw basket
Fred Velasquez found in an ally
on his way home to the group home;
Fred has been dead for more than twelve years -
Fred who once asked to come with me to Mass on Mother's Day.

As the tears come this morning,
I understand moving memories
is not just placing old things in new boxes
but memories that move inside my heart.

This morning
in the shower,
I waved good-bye to Glenn -
this morning
in the shower
a commune left a seething couple;
this morning
Susan and I were left
in a lake shore apartment;
this morning Susan left me again.

out of all those leavings
and there were all the others,
I found You,
You found me,
and I am in this place of loving friends.


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