My closet is full of memories through out my life,
and some of my dad’s.
He didn’t want to believe his stuff had to be sold
so I hold the last of it for him.
At the assisted living, he doesn’t have a closet,
just a wardrobe.
I haven’t spoken to him for a while.
During our last phone call, he was in attack mode.
I had to step away.

In one of the boxes is my Girl Scout vests.
I could create a pillow.
In another is stories me and my cousin wrote for our grandma as kids.
Empty boxes take up the most space;
waiting for my next chapter to be unveiled.