The movers came today.
They took things that are mine
And left what is not.
They took the hutch my grandmother left to me, the baby's crib,
The ginormous Oz collection.
They took the huge flat screen, Nanny’s round table,
A mop and a broom.
They took boxes and boxes of books,
Jackets and sweaters, old family photos,
The clear crystal I bought for my fortieth birthday.
They left the bed we shared. They left the sheets.
The couch you turned upside down on me in anger, once.
The tree with fat, fat lemons.
They left you tucking me in each night with soft kisses,
A Purim party. Barbecues with sweet summer corn.
They left trips to the dog park,
Meeting at the farmer’s market for lunch.
They left bringing home our son for the very first time to meet our excited, waiting family.
Visions, revisions.
They left the plant friends—sage, lemon verbena, rosemary, citrus,
lemongrass, artichoke, blackberry, thyme, that crazy guava tree,
the blueberries I saved just for you.
They left tears and they left hugs,
Tacos and pizza,
A temple with a Stele in the East where dear friends dreamed.
A whole lot of television shows.
Ghostly laughter I can almost hear echoes against stark walls.
Soundless little boy giggles float from empty rooms.
The mailman passes a white picket fence without opening the gate
while phantom protective puppies bark and wiggle silently in protest.
Memories of a family that was.
The movers came today.
They took things that are mine And left what is not.
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