Thursday, November 1, 2012
like our family at Thanksgiving,
recalling memories, telling stories,
each a moment in our shared lives.
There must be more than a thousand,
too many really to count,
pretending to be snowflakes,
every one distinct from the other.
The shiny ones call for attention,
their embossed lettering leaping out,
not dimming the significance of
their plainer cousins, but screaming
mightily for attention.
The calmer models,
with no special filigree,
just the facts, ma’am,
of no less significance to us.
We kept them for a reason,
some times simply for an address,
a telephone number,
a note written on the inside cover,
almost never for their created purpose,
seldom to provide fire.
We’ll keep them for awhile,
even play with them, spread on
the dining room table,
remembering the times, the places,
a bit wistful, a little laughter, feeling older.
Eventually, probably when we move,
we’ll toss them, not without an argument,
but a box of matchbooks
just makes no sense in
a moving van, moving on.