The Things We Keep

A poem.

Photo by Steve Johnson on Unsplash

The sun half filtering into the alley shimmers my breathsteam as I push  
through the back door of my Chicago apartment building.  

A man leans into the industrial trash bin and sifts through. He pulls out 
metal and plastic and adds them to his already heaping, well-organized 
shopping cart. 

Cans, glass, plastic, and, curiously, a small collection of costume jewelry, 
all separated meticulously by color or type into the grocery bags, some 
tied and hanging from the metal wires.

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In Minnesota my uncles chuck 40+ years’ worth of rotted wood, 
metal scraps and carpet cuttings into a dumpster. They prep  
for the retirement move. 

The two-car garage once packed so tight, the sedan grazed two old sawhorses 
on the right and on the left the chest freezer's door-dinged with black. 

Tato, my grandpa, can’t watch as the uncles make the decisions he can't. 

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I sell two utility shelves, leave a piece of 60-inch plywood in the alley, give  
my sofa-bed to a friend, donate as much as I can cart to the thrift store, sell  
as many books as online bookstores take, and give a full cart +  
the cart to a neighbor I meet just days before I leave – including my plant,  
Carl.  

What's left of my Chicago life I pack into two Prius trips headed for home.  

Who am I trying to shed? 

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