Somewhere tucked on a bookshelf is a book.
Dogeared, yellow pages with a hand written note.
In a box, lie trinkets — gifts, a pendant of Annie, a book mark.
Hand made cards, smudged with time.
An old doll almost intact,
Broken spectacles, pictures, a watch and postcards.
Some may call it clutter, junk —
And it’ll all go when I go.
But to me, they are the reason behind my smile, an odd tear.
More precious than collectibles or art —
They are pieces of my life,
My world and heart.