The Depot

I left my suitcases.

Inside were keep-sake rings and bracelets

photo albums of my trip to Europe, and of my family.

My books and clothes and personal items,

and I trusted they would be there when I got back.

But I never came back.

What dust was all this stuff ground into?

The depots of the world, scattered with personal belongings.

The dumps, the rubble, the piles of

portraits, jewelry, clothing, dolls.

Scattered, looted, lost.

I wonder if we have a safe deposit box in heaven?

If our angel takes us there when we’re dead.

Here’s your favorite bear.

That bracelet from your aunt,

that ring from your grandpa.

The photo of yourself in the apple tree.

And other stuff you forgot you even had.

The erosion of one’s life is odd in

the whittling away of small things.

This tiny detail,

thought forgotten

is glistening in the dust

like a dropped jewel,

remembered in the heart of the divine.