The Closet

When you died
the box in the closet fell off the shelf.

And the contents I had neatly packed away
spilled out, facing me with histories and
pieces of myself long ignored,
though never forgotten, chief of which is how
much I am like you and how proud
of you I was, occasional differences
notwithstanding.

The box was so full, the contents pressed
against the door until it opened a wee
crack. I explained the house was settling,
but that wasn't true. The door
nudged wider open... I said there was
nothing there, only mice, which was a falsehood.
Finally the hinges tore off and all the
memories and mess were in the
middle of the floor.

Everyone gasped.
And left the room.

I was left to deal with the broken door
and the scattered pieces of events
that had been kept hidden from sight
by myself.

But the closet was finally clean.