It’s Just Stuff

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I try not to grow too attached
to the things in our home
thinking of fire
and storm
and other vagaries of life;
I try not to imbue them
with more meaning
than is their due,
but every year that passes,
my memories lose their clarity,
the surety I once felt
in their solid shape,
and did you know
that when you were born,
your eyes
where a pewtery chocolate
that I’ve never seen rendered
anywhere
but in the smooth, shiny glaze
of the teapot
I brought home
when my grandmother died?
I will cry when it breaks.