My Sister’s Boxes

When I moved my sister’s boxes,
I thought I could finally let go
of the clutter she’d carried
for too many years.

But inside each one
was a piece of her—
small things, big things,
things I forgot, things she kept
to remember the forgetting.

There were letters,
from people long gone,
clothes that fit no one anymore,
even dreams wrapped in fraying paper,
growing heavier with dust.

I thought I was freeing up space,
but it turned out
space was not the problem.
It was the weight of holding on,
a burden so light I never felt it
until it was gone.

And now, here I am,
in this new place,
with her shelves still bare,
feeling lighter but not empty,
letting her go
without asking her to stay.