"In the end, only three things matter: how much you loved, how gently you lived, and how gracefully you let go of things not meant for you." Buddha
 |
| ca. 1960 |
In the end,
it comes
down
to a box of
photos,
your
favourite rings,
(I remember you, wearing them,
when I was little)
our old
kitchen table,
where you
and Dad,
I imagine,
had coffee,
now and
then, before I was born.
(what I remember are the endless fights)
In the end,
it comes
down
to going through
your stuff –
all of it –
through all
your
drawers, cabinets,
wardrobes,
closets, your
garage,
your basement,
the
second basement,
your
cupboards –
I never realized,
I never realized,
we collect
–
(What is going to happen
with it, after we have left?
Is this supposed to be my lesson in impermanence?)
Is this supposed to be my lesson in impermanence?)
what to
keep, what
to throw
away.
(Every piece, we threw away, hurt)
To give
things away
to people, who knew you,
who were
happy with your stuff,
felt really
good!
To hear my
brother destroy
most of
your cups and plates
with a
hammer, (Nobody
wanted them!
I know!)
I know!)
What does gracefully mean, anyway?
so we could
discard them
easier, did
not feel good at all!
But in the
end,
it also
comes down to this:
how much
time, how much
strength, do
we have,
do we need,
to deal
with this?
I think, I would have needed
a full year, a full cycle of mourning,
with all your stuff still in place,
so I could sit with it, sit with you,
find out, slowly, in my time, yes, gracefully,
what to do with every single cup.
But of course, we did not have a year of strength.
In the very end, I found an
old box,
with photos and papers, which
Dad had brought with him sixty
years ago, when he left his hometown,
with photos and papers, which
Dad had brought with him sixty
years ago, when he left his hometown,
to meet
you, which he did not know yet.
It was at first about, having his own life.
I had never
seen the photos before,
or the
papers. He died twentyseven
years ago. You kept it the way he had left it.
You let it
sit there with us,
without
anybody knowing,
in the back of one of your closets.
That
made me understand,
what he had
meant to you.
In the end,
we all become stories,
people tell each other,
while going through our boxes,
the ones, we are packing now.
This thought made me smile.
In the end,
we all become stories,
people tell each other,
while going through our boxes,
the ones, we are packing now.
This thought made me smile.
© Susanne Becker
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