Over my respirator, echoes bickering children-
their unclaimed pictures aim unfamiliar smiles at me.
My bedroom smells of antiseptic and dying roses;
withered, my finger no longer fits my wedding ring.
Thieved in the night, my possessions cannot tell their story;
attached to beloved memories hang arid price tags.
Trapped in nostalgia, my torn will fading on the nightstand.
The last line reads,"Do not bury me with my diary."
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This Poems Story
This is a poem I wrote for a poetry class I took a few months ago. I was going through a very challenging time in my life. The assignment was to write a personae poem. I was at a point in my life where I felt like a part of me was dying and I was losing everything I had ever worked hard for. I had to make a lot of changes in my life for the better. There was a chance that I could have gone away for a while, and everyone around me knew it. I saw their true colors through my bad situation. Friends and family where asking what possessions of mine I was selling or getting rid of, because they wanted them. I felt very lonely, and there were few I felt would truly miss me if I went away. I was also inspired by my eighty-four year-old grandma. She is getting to a point in her life where she is considering moving out of her home and into a retirement community. I could relate to what she may be feeling as the loved ones around her are trying to claim her things as she downsizes. She is very special to me, and I envy the long life she has lived. I have shared with her some poetry. The last time I visited her, she pulled out a William Stafford poetry book she acquired at one of his readings she attended at Lewis and Clark College and told me she wanted me to have it. The best gifts are thoughtful and have a memorable story to go with them.