Thrift Store

At the strip mall thrift store

A million stories vying for attention,

Each item another chance at new life

As if saying, keep on without me.

Nothing is discarded or ever useless,

No purpose but what we make.

Dusty aisles marked with

Pollen-like smudges shout

I was here. 

I was loved.

My throat catches at the sight

Of the intricate pattern on 

Wedding gift china

Never used, 

Prized for a special occasion 

How often we defer such pleasure

For a day that never comes.

Well-worn grooves in vinyl records

Spark memories of “Ode to Billy Joe”

Warbled during living room concerts

My parents hands clap in delight

The frayed edges of a tapestry

Reveal the common thread that runs

Through all things

Of lifetimes recycled

These seemingly forgotten things

Passing through innumerable hands

The residue of life expressed

Dexterous hands

Breathing new purpose

Into its remains.

I consider my hands, and feel my mother’s hands

The hands that held and soothed me

And the cycle continues

Here, nothing ever dies.