I am moving.

My two-bedroom unit is no longer mine.

Walk in closet, big coat closet, two bedroom closets—and pantry.

Gone.

I will have one bedroom.

One closet.

Kitchen cabinets enough—

if I part with all I hold dear:

Grandma’s Depression Glass.

Family photos, Bible, albums.

A presentation flag of remembrance of a dear friend.

Baking pans and mixer and cookie cutters.

Genealogy research going back to the 1300s.

Memories from when my children were small.

History books.

Poetry books.

Old notebooks with my scrawl of words and gardens.

Garden tools and books.

Christmas treasures that make December festive.

And then—maybe—I can fit the necessities,

flashlights and can openers, toasters, and rainboots, mops and snow shovels

into lifeless chasms—great gaping repositories.

But they bring no joy, no life, no hours of good thoughts.

My closets are depositories of what makes life good.

And soon, they will not.