the things that stay.

I've been walking around my house with wide eyes.
trying to mentally decide what should come along
and what stays behind.

My grandmother's china, our new crystal cake plate?
Those certainly will be safer here than across the country
on a truck to a earthquake prone city.

But what about my birdcage
and how many pillows will we need?
Will we have room for all our pictures
and our boxes and boxes of books?
Do we take the Hemingway and leave Neruda anthology behind?

I don't know where to start
or how to stop making these mental lists.
Last night before falling asleep I contemplated
10 different ways to get my african violet and our cat safely across the country.

Most of our things will have to stay behind.
Left to fend for themselves in a storage unit or a kind relatives attic
for a few years.

This weekend I bought a pair of shoes
and last night while attending the concert of a native San Francisco musician (Vienna Teng)
I scribbled this in my notebook:


I bought a pair of yellow shoes
with the specific purpose of walking uphill.

Brand new city shoes the color of sunday

I will eat sandwiches in these shoes.
And leave them by the front door on rainy afternoons.

You will loose me in a crowd
and find me again.
A flash of yellow against the gray concrete.

I will dance to car horns in these shoes
most likely fall down in these shoe
brush myself off, laugh in these shoes.

One million steps,
chasing life in these shoes.