For years before he died, grandfather kept,
stacked in his basement, every can, every
lidless jar and pastry tray that came
his way—bags (paper and plastic) stuffed
with bags, grimy pyramids of crusted bottles.
He had already filled one workroom wall,
floor to ceiling, with cigar boxes heavy
with carefully sorted screws, bolts, washers, drill
bits, hex wrenches, solder, sandpaper, and such.
Easy to guess what he saw coming,
harder to say why so many torn
sacks, bent trays, and pickle jars would
be required. Perhaps it was just habit,
a grasping refusal to acknowledge the end
of needing, wanting, using—why, I guess,
my father still holds onto a boat
he keeps in the garage and hasn’t
put in the water for fifty years.
Perhaps grandfather hoped that what was coming
could be put by for a while.
After he died, we found our presents
to him—sweaters, gloves, ties—still swathed
in tissue in boxes under his bed,
as though he’d concluded that his life
was already over, or that a next
might require new clothes. As though believing
that those who have saved will be.