Can’t Take It With You

Pack it all up in boxes,

there, there you go,

some things you need,

some things you care for,

neatly tucked away.

But it isn’t the stuff I’m not taking that I’ll miss,

so much as the memories clung to them like Spring Breeze fabric freshener

that I cannot imitate in any other season of my lifetime.

So if I go away,

I cannot take with me

the exhale I take before stepping into my bedroom

the frayed line of carpet in the hall I always hop over

the fridge door handles massaging between my shoulder blades

the height of the bathroom sink at my hips

the width of floor where wizards once flew

the board games we made up

or when I could play them with you

the walls we washed while acting as dinosaurs

the sticks outside we used for swords

the imaginary house built from opened cupboard doors

the time we pretended to be a centaur, galloping up the stairs

all of us crowded in the bathroom when you accidentally smashed that lightbulb with a ball

the safe spaces and toe holds for when the floor turns to lava

the hiding places for dolls and ponies

the size of you climbing to reach above the doorway for the bedroom key

the chairs that became an island in the sea–

I know,

it won’t be forever.

I know,

tons of people do this all the time.

But I don’t know

how to leave

this springtime I can’t take with me.

***

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