Purpose

To anyone who might ask, I'm only down-
sizing— not throwing anything I can get

my hands on over the side of a sinking
ship. A kind of cleaning that also means,

despite the stings and whips and disturbances,
life gave and we've also had our share of bounty. 

Books and dinnerware; an ornate gravy boat,
a lidded mug you couldn't hold with just

one hand. Even our heavy table has been 
dismantled, the top leaning against a wall 

in the spare bedroom while waiting for a new 
owner and its new life. In its place, a smaller

rectangle with four plain legs we put together
from a kit. It still took a whole afternoon 

but gave a little more space back to the room.  
As I chopped a carton of mushrooms and sliced 

into thin half-moons a bit of butternut squash 
rescued from the vegetable bin, I got a picture

through my phone of my mother, two years shy
of ninety and half a world away, finally getting 

her booster shot. Just months ago, some doctors
where she lives were of the opinion that there was 

no urgency in getting vaccines to those at such 
an advanced age, like her. In other words, why take

extra measures for those nearing the end anyway? 
But who's to say how little or how much more life 

remains for each of us? Even a thing, past its 
perceived use, finds its way to a different purpose.