How strange how one loses care when one grows old.
When I was a child everything meant everything to me.
I had a favorite pen once and when I misplaced it
I turned my bedroom inside-out to look for it.
When I couldn’t find it I cried.
It was an ordinary pen but I didn’t want any other pen
not just any one of those which I had already found
in my desperate scavenging, even if they had glitters
or were new or worked better; I wanted that one pen.
I sat on the floor surrounded by things I forgot I had,
things I never knew I had, things that once again were new to me,
and I cried. Nowadays I lose a pen, a phone, a key, a wallet,
a laptop, an old photograph of my mother, a memory, a friend
and I get another one. I doubt that this is how
it is supposed to go: all those years in school
and “real life” has taught me nothing. Shouldn’t I be clutching
things more tightly than ever, now that I’m growing closer
to turning to dust?
(writing prompt: “dust”)