A friend told me
Here in Germany
When we want to get rid of old things
We leave them outside
It doesn’t matter how big or small the pile is
Stacks of books
Tolstoy, Tolkien, G. R. R. Martin
Heirlooms, grandma’s box of jewelry
Rusting pots and pans, rocking
Chairs, oak wood table
A Christmas sweater from last year
These things wait for the collector to pick them up
Or a stranger who thinks they will be useful
I wonder, when I return to my parents’ house
Will I still see my trophies, journals, clothes and books
In their nooks and crannies, and grooves?
Maybe they’re in a box neatly tucked in
Waiting for the collector or a stranger to come by
If I see them in their proper places
And throw them away myself
Will I still call getting rid of them
By the same name?

Joshua Berida has written all sort of things over the years from car parts to dental work to marketing to poems to short stories to travel. These days he focuses on writing about destinations in the Philippines and Asia. He works freelance because he thinks he is his own boss.

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