The day after we buried my grandmother,
we went to the shell that was her house.
The only place I had known my entire life,
was now not a home of safety,
but a house of little welcome,

We saw what was left,
after family, friends, and the house clearance had taken
anything of value.
Left behind was what I took, for remembrance.
The hard-back collected WH Auden.
The hard-back John Steinbeck.
Reminders of the conversation I had never had with my grand-dad.
The old cameras, analogue in a digital world,
marked with the name and number of their first owner.

The unwanted relics of a world that moves too fast.
In the same way that we keep presents from family, friends,
and former lovers,
we keep the scattered, solid remnants of memory.
We hold onto them give them lives, secrets, safety for our memories.
In years to come they will be a reminder of someone, of something,
An heirloom to pass on to someone else
To imbue with meaning, with memory