Things

by Juleigh Howard Hobson

Things Have a Way of Piling Up

Things have a way of piling up. Corners grow thick, shelved obscured, the bathroom sink wears soap no one unwraps—too nice for daily use—unread magazines wait in low glossy stacks. It’s been said we hold onto things because we are of life. Yet life pours itself on us with stuff we have to put somewhere, not out of fear, or panic, but the need to keep rooms ordered somewhat: soaps with soap, books with books, coffee cups that haven’t been washed yet filling our sinks up.

Lost Supper

And in the cold kitchen, where no one has turned out the light, dinner sits. Still. There is stasis. A sense of life interrupted. Not returned to. Yet. Something awful passed suddenly. Unexpected. Leaving these things to congeal. Two bulbs shine overhead.

Things

How quickly things become only garbage— thrown away—not even worth a garage sale: phone chargers, mugs, baby albums, old ornaments… Dead people’s things do not hold meaning. That’s lent only by the living and it only lasts as long as them. Things become valueless fast. Mold grows. Mice chew. Boxes fall apart. Pictures become ‘Who is that?’ Grandchildren rent dumpsters, wrestle all the old things into them, and then sell the houses they’ll never think of again.