How full is a life well-lived?
Can it be judged by the things it collects?
Books.
Trinkets.
Pets.
Paintings.
Clothes.
Boxes.
Dust.
When life turns to dust, what then?
The packing begins.
Life is messy
unorganized
random
hectic
tired.
Purposeful.
Boxes opened, examined.
Books reviewed, boxed.
Boxes put in boxes.
Memories trapped in cardboard.
The person is gone,
their echo sustained in belongings,
a multi-tonal, dissonant sound
only heard by those
packing up a life.
