Unpacking the Books

Did you think I would not
remember you?

Every time
I unpack the books anew

in the next new home,
I’m reminded. It’s true

I blame you for the damage.
That stupid boy too,

but you were the one
who yelled and stamped, who

insisted I not unpack
the boxes he’d wet through

watering along the edge of the verandah
where they were stacked. I knew

I could have saved them,
if I’d got them out quickly to dry in the sun.

‘There’s not enough room,’ you hissed.
I saw that there was. I’d already begun

prising the lid off the first. But I was tired,
you were loud and insistent. Well, done is done.

Or, in this case, not done, and when I finally
freed my treasures, mould and damp had won.

It’s long ago now, and here I am
settling in the final house with the final man.

I unpack the books for the last time,
observing the water marks yet again

still with the old pang, as sharp as ever.
You are fifteen years gone

and this treason not forgotten
among all the better reasons to remember you.


NaPoWriMo Day 3