keepsakes

she would save string,
paper clips,
rubber bands, empty
plastic bags,
harper's bazaar magazines
and look.
out of print forever
but stacked
in tilted piles
along
the basement wall. years
of cards received
not in bags or boxes,
but scattered on
the floor like autumn
leaves. love letters.
valentines from the third grade.
the clothes were haystacks
in a corner,
or on hangers swinging on
the door.
they didn't fit, the style
was gone,
but they blew in the wind
of her rooms
when she opened a window.
empty bottles lined
the shelves,
books books books,
buildings of books going
nowhere.
lamps that wouldn't light,
stereos with wires
frayed, stacked
silently together.
and now, the ghost of you
lies in there,
somewhere.