I have not written a poem about the day we left Marcus. I don’t know if I ever will.
The day of the sale was beautiful. Late September. Warm. Bright blue.
My father sat on the porch while his life was sold.
I wish I had bought the house.
I know it was sold to a good woman who blessed the day. Her name said it all. Joy.
But it closed a door on a past.
And I regret it. Always will.
I will move on. Retire to another home. Without a past.
And so it goes.
Pingback: Weekly Photo Challenge: Regret « Thirdhandart's Weblog
It is hard to let go of the past.
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True. It’s just nice to have a past that you want to touch once in awhile.
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You never leave the past…. you always take it with you…. remember you always are home when you are in Marcus…..
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Thanks, Lori. I definitely haven’t lost it.
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Pingback: Weekly Photo Challenge: REGRET… | Mirth and Motivation
Poignant. Beautiful. Touching. It is hard to let go, but after we mourn, we must open the door to heal and then press forward; albeit gingerly. Great post.
Eliz
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Thanks. We do, we do. Each day brings something new.
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Pingback: Weekly Photo Challenge: Regret | The UnOfficial Version
So layered with rich memories. I think the day I still regret is when I drove out of the lane at the farm as the sun was rising and then west to California. There’s always a glass half-full, half empty feeling about it. I suspect many people don’t have such feelings. But that’s what makes some people poets or photographers. Enjoy the ride.
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Writing keeps us sane, and I haven’t been doing enough of it lately.
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And such a beautiful metaphorical photo, the life experiences that nourish us represented by forks and spoons.
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Now, there IS a poem there.
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Pingback: Weekly Photo Challenge: Regret | this man's journey
How lovely a memoir piece … it brought back memories of when my daughter, her daughters and I cleaned out my mothers house…choices, leaving memories, but the memories are there, in my writing about them.
Your choice of the silverware was so perfect. I wish I’d thought of that on the day we were there. The story is long, but I was allowed to take one piece of memory…and I chose the “silent butler”… a metal contraption to clear out the ashes from the ashtrays safely and discretely so the ashtrays never over flowed when entertaining.
Peace,
Siggi in Downeast Maine
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I think my grandfather had a silent butler. Did you push a button that forced the bottom of the ashtray to open and the ashes to fall down into the base of the stand? I remember he had inlaid small tiles all around the small table that it was attached to the ashtray. We’d push the button and trap our fingers in the sliding trays. Almost forget about that. I’d never seen anything like it anywhere else. Thanks for sharing your story. j.
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Just beautiful. very powerfully poignant
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Thank you for stopping by and commenting.
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You are welcome
🙂
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Beautiful entry! It’s comforting to touch the past once in awhile. It gives me strength in my present identity and courage to face the future.
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Very nice. Thank you!
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Julie,
Christy Carlson showed me your poem and I just had to respond. You described that day perfectly. I know your dad was closing a chapter in his life that he loved, but your family is close and he is such a sweet guy.
From the first day I moved in this house it has felt like home to me. Must be the love they left behind. I have been blessed.
Joy
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Wow! How amazing! Glad to hear all is going well. It’s all good!
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I identify with your feelings! I regret not having bought my childhood home by the river that was eventually turned into a boatyard! Even my husband got teary eyed when we visited a few years later 😦
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