Soon,
I am going to have to pack my thirties away.
(It’s a good thing I am a neat packer.)
Large things first, wrapped in tissue,
lightly scented with nostalgia
a boyfriend
a break-up
faint spritz of –
– just what did I wear?
cards tucked into shirts and
memories of burning most of them
at the beach.
(and to be honest at home too in an
oven-proof dish I later had to throw away.)
I fold in the kite
that would not fly away
pink tail.

I tenderly lie
memories of Lucy on the bed
and gaze; how to store?
how to keep in perpetuity?
wrap in vintage lace she would
have loved, retrieve the tiny
silver heart from the cancer ward
where I took it in advance
to show her that
love goes ahead.
And round them tuck
snapshots, carrying her coffin,
loving her daughters through grief and
someone offering me a lift.
(I’d worn heels, of course I had.)

Do I let a blackness be stored there?  Will its smell
permeate happier scenes?
On consideration I put a
tiny sniff of it
in an air-tight pot, in case I need to
uncork it to remind me
to treat myself gently
when I attempt the impossible.

Hmmm half-full.
It’s time to navigate
the conception of a dream.
Do I pack what is yet unfinished?
Or keep it out?
I give it a shake, see what
might fall away.
I pack a meeting, a moment,
and several encouragements
in a gold leather bag,
easily retrieved at will.

And so some of the more
cumbersome objets:
Two weeks of terror in Bali,
a surfboard and a rat,
incessant hum of air-conditioning unit
unmaintained for decades.
Pristine dawn sea and sky
breathtaking, divine;
curl them round a friendship bracelet,
a sarong never actually used.
I wish I’d got those billabong trousers
like a surf chick.
Ten birthdays in a tube,
pearl pearl pearl
loved loved loved.
Cards, presents, flowers, cake
(one year three cakes, a triumph).

Oh, I turn around and I
had forgotten that.
One evening spent
in the neonatal unit with
my friend and her husband
while her baby died
(nearly),
and several trips behind the
locked doors of the mental health unit
reassuring her
that we were still alive,
really, feel my hand, it’s not
the afterlife just yet.
I pack it with the lavender heart
I gave her to tell her
love is real
love is real
love is real
and which she happily returned.
The lavender can hold its own against the smell of death.

And now precious days,
hours, years:
Two weddings,
two nieces,
two nephews
and all packed in with the sound
of laughter, singing and tiny baby cries
and the sh sh sh
of new parents’ futile attempts
to guarantee a night’s sleep.
One pair of 3D heart glasses
one sound of string quartet
one afternoon long cuddle,
one fleeting glimpse, two,
three, fleeting fleeting all.

And now I drop in camping trips,
post break up, glorious community
weekends, packing one house,
growing another,
two piano exams and
hours of practice,
tens of running trips
hours of pilates (dog accompanied)
years in my very favourite café
squeeze squeeze in and around
every gap crammed
telephone calls without
end or size, mountain moments,
haircuts, dresses, concerts,
and I haven’t even mentioned
work!! Oh how oh how will it all fit?
Should I take
something out?

It’s too late, the lid is closing,
what’s there will stay there;
what’s not will just be
left behind.