On Going Through Family Papers During the Pandemic
Everyone seems so very fragile,
as fragile as the books falling apart
from glue that has dried to cracking,
tears in the dust jackets,
the extra thin World War II era paper;
as faded as the ink from the letters,
written in careful cursive, smudged
and water-stained, so fragile, falling apart.
I deliberate on what should be saved,
what is important. But the poignancy
brings me to my knees literally.
Surrounded by debris, I contemplate
this terrible fragility of humanity as
documented in the relicts delineating
war, disease, poverty, loss as
reflected in the the lives of individuals,
mere details of a larger humanity,
indicating world horrific events
spanning decades, centuries.
Your plans will fall to dust.
Your goals are nonsense.
You are playing your role,
but you’re not sure what that is
in the grand scheme of things.