The Things We Keep

a poem.

poetic musings

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Photo by Steve Johnson on Unsplash

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I wrote this during and after my departure from Chicago in 2013-2014. There’s an earlier draft in which I go into conversations I was having with a friend at the time about our arduous efforts to minimize our belongings to the barest possible number and my desire to have the perfect packable wardrobe full of versatile clothing I’d never actually wear in real life.

You know, all those convertible, multi-wear wraps and tops. I did buy one and though it was a pleasant piece of cloth, I wore it once as a skirt to someone’s wedding. Skirts and dresses aren’t really my thing, so you can see the problem: it was clothing for the person I wanted to be rather than the person I am (or was).

My relationship with stuff is a complicated one, whether overwhelmed by my inclination to hoard digital content or stripping down to a packable life, both extremes sort of overshadow the privilege it is to even think about stuff so much. To think about having or not having. To have the opportunity to choose. That’s what this piece points toward.

With the holiday season upon us, I hope the things you keep (and the things you buy) and how you spend your time, bring you and those you hold dear, the most possible pleasantness.

May you spend this Black Friday and weekend in the ways that you most need.

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The Things We Keep

by Libby Walkup

The sun half filtering into the alley shimmers my breathsteam as I push  
through the back door of my Chicago apartment building.  

A man leans into the industrial trash bin and sifts through. He pulls out 
metal and plastic and adds them to his already heaping, well-organized 
shopping cart. 

Cans, glass, plastic, and, curiously, a small collection of costume jewelry, 
all separated meticulously by color or type into the grocery bags, some 
tied and hanging from the metal wires.

·· 

In Minnesota my uncles chuck 40+ years’ worth of rotted wood, 
metal scraps and carpet cuttings into a dumpster. They prep  
for the retirement move. 

The two-car garage once packed so tight, the sedan grazed two old sawhorses 
on the right and on the left the chest freezer's door-dinged with black. 

Tato, my grandpa, can’t watch as the uncles make the decisions he can't. 

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I sell two utility shelves, leave a piece of 60-inch plywood in the alley, give  
my sofa-bed to a friend, donate as much as I can cart to the thrift store, sell  
as many books as online bookstores take, and give a full cart +  
the cart to a neighbor I meet just days before I leave – including my plant,  
Carl.  

What's left of my Chicago life I pack into two Prius trips headed for home.  

Who am I trying to shed? 

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