My son has started writing
poetry and it really pleases me. He's always had
a creative mind and heart, but hasn't had much
opportunity to express himself. This is now
a catharsis for him.
by Eric S. Gossett
I remember that we had too much clutter and how
irritated I was that even dust couldn't cover everything.
I also remember our shopping trips to buy the clutter
and the unknowing looks from clerks who didn't realize
they had just sold us a part of our lives. We stacked clutter
in cabinets and closets, shifting older clutter to the attic,
and even found a piece for a particularly lonely corner space.
It felt so strange when we divided possessions and made
decisions on who got what, again moving the clutter, and
all the while I was emptying my heart. Today I sit quietly
in this house, watching through a window as autumn leaves
tumble over empty brown fields, and the weather
seems to mimic my emotions. There's a chill in the house,
and corners echo of better days, days when we weren't
as strangers. I know it's my imagination but that
empty corner space now appears to mourn from the shadows
as if it were a corner of my heart, its loss and mine wedded.