Spoiler
Give me your honest opinion. I'm open to any and all suggestions. It's a true story though so don't be too harsh. 
The things that reside in the closet have long lost their original scents.
Perhaps ‘twas the walls that stole what little individuality the items had
and left them only with the antique smell of ink and dust.
I step from one miscellaneous item to another as the fragile, forgotten things
are forced to endure my weight. For a brief moment, I mistake the sweat in the grooves
between each of my fingers as the past trying to keep its hold on my curiosity.
The light bulb flickers as the washing machine downstairs starts to hum
and a stack of old suitcases wobble beneath my bare feet. I try not to fall
but I do; as everyone does.
Photographs and letters fly out of the suitcases like an excited flock of birds
and settle around me. I recognize faces and handwriting, places and names and dreams.
I’ve the privilege to read my mother’s journal and the poems my father wrote.
Like the hundreds of photos that are now scattered about the room,
What I had thought were useless things being hidden from unwelcome reminiscence
Are truly treasures only being tucked away for safe keeping.
So I sit here on top of an old suitcase
in a small room that smells like someone else’s home
and pray that one day I too will be as beautiful
and graceful as my father’s poetry.
