What are all of these things we fill our houses with? Our drawers. Our cabinets. We are collectors of books and tablecloths. Poems and jewelry. If we could we would put the sun in a jar, the moon in a wooden box of darkness, and call them memories. We find meaning to our lives in photographs and cut-off shorts. In candles and teapots. Watches placed on windowsills. Movie tickets, printed squares of nervous laughter. Butterflies doing cartwheels through our stomachs. Fluttering hearts. The water from our showers imitates rain. Racing through the gutter. Shutters banging. Lightning flashing. You can’t see the stairs through the curtains. Winding towards the window. Or the cherry blossoms. Pink stamps on a gray sky. Sugar in tiny hot cups of orange. Remind us of whole fields of cane. Chewy like chalk. Sweet. Streaks of sweat down our necks. Salt white as the foam from the sea litters our counters. Our carpets were woven with care. Telephone polls link us together. Places moving closer with time. Our ceilings sinking. As boxes are brought up to the attic, sometimes we stop to think. To try to figure out what this whole life thing is about. But then we move past. Continuing on day by day. Collecting all the while.