Boxes of Childhood at the Curb

Down from college, the
young man sorts through the
closet filled with past treasures, willingly
shedding grade school mementos, small
ceramic attempts, unused photos from his high
school yearbook assignments,
the posters of no-longer-
important musicians, trophies,
a small deflated basketball - pieces of his
younger self. Did the neat, clean-freak
father force this? Has the spare bed-
room's organization greater
priority than his history?
The mother is called, requested
by the step mother to see if she might
want to sort through the pile before the trash
truck obliterates those earlier times.
Is this progress?
Has he simply outgrown
the playground photo taken when
he was nine or so that I found discarded
with old rubber bands. I'm swept back to making
lunches caring enough to hold up the
world, stop a flood for them.
How do I put aside
sentiment, separate the demanding
present from the departed sweet days
to tolerate this downsizing? Relax. It's only a
feeling of slipping away. If he's raking off
dead skin, healthier derma lay below.