The curators gather round the inflatable chair,
Knowing not how to seal the leak. Their efforts doomed to fail,
for even if they patch the puncture, the act of repair ruins the chair.
How do you fix something that was never meant to last?

The furniture of my grandmother, on the other hand,
was built to endure: heavy dark wood, breakfronts and clocks,
a dining table with a small bell to summon servants.
But tastes change, and even the antiques dealer couldn’t give it away,
taking it anyway to spare the family. We carry smaller things,

but even those don’t protect us. Once there was a gold wedding ring,
handed down to a daughter who was sixteen when her father died.
The ring gone ten years later in a burglary,
her grief rising as if he died a second time.

We want to leave a legacy, but come to find it difficult.
Things with meaning, but personal, the collections of lives well-lived.
Might as well just say, “I can’t bear to part with it,
so I’m leaving it to you, feel free to do as you please,”

as you gaze lovingly at books that will go unread,
kept on hand because you like them and what they say about you,
never realizing their weight until it is time to move.
Your heirs will curse you lightly, still loving you.

Nothing lasts, no point becoming attached to objects,
mere souvenirs of the passage through.
Better to leave a wealth of memories, to be passed down
from children to children’s children. We live on
until the last person who remembers us is dust,
and that has to be enough.