tucked away.

our lives are series of containers

I arrive at this conclusion

on a crisp winter’s day

as you lead me to

the spot in the ground where

part of your past is contained.

I hold you-

my arms containing

all you are feeling,

all we are thinking-

past memories and present tense

all present tensions

wrapped up,

intertwined in us.

We walk back

hand in hand to your car-

the container for this day’s journey-

and you stop and tell stories

contained in your head,

of an empty country church

and everything contained within

potluck dinners,

tall tales and a

trunk full of watermelons-

all the stories contained so neatly in your memory

and this is when I realize life

is nothing more than a series of containers:

coffins to hold loved ones

when the breath is no longer

contained in their lungs;

death, in its attempt to keep hope and love contained

fails in that

they still live ,

contained in little pockets of memories we share

and keep it all alive.

We head back to the home you are leaving behind

and beginning emptying the container so that it can

contain something new,

something else

something different.

Packing envelopes-

filled with letters & documents

papers & such

words that change the face of who we are

and trunks full of watermelons

and suitcases of belongings

and hopes and dreams and sunshine

contained in the bright winter sky and transferred into

my memory for posterity

and boxes and boxes

of books and clothes

and everything and anything else needed

just to get by on this journey-

and we pack our things until

only hope remains

just the way Pandora left it;

loading up our secrets…

something mysterious and beautiful and awesome.