The memoir, the story of your life, is an object of questionable value.

You hold it in your hands,
shake,
listen:
what’s inside?
Is there a lock?
Does it open?

What’s it for?

You could take it to someone who specializes in these things, to appraise its value.

Keep, sell, discard?

There’s an entry point in the back under a groove
that feels like a latch
(or a trap).

I sit in the tub while the water drains
and air-dry like the turkey we cooked
for Christmas.

How long would it take, were it me, to cook, to eat?

And what would they do with the bones.

Photo credit, Loren Chasse.

Categories: Memoir, poetry

Tags: death, Meaning of life, Memoir, nature photography, poem, poetry, postaday, William Pearse writer, writing technique