How old is Marla now?
Seventy-five perhaps.
Eighty?
Will anyone want her things when she is gone?
Who will get rid of them?
Marla’s house does not contain surfaces.
Her walls are plastered with pictures and plates.
The shelves are stacked with books and
oddments thick with dust.
The candles are unlit,
their wicks still white and waxy.
So many things,
many she might miss
but which,
at the end of the day,
mean very little
if anything
at all.
I hope.