It’s a strange thing,
this life of privilege,
that we have to work so hard
to pin down our gratitude
for what we have
before it dissolves
into the realm of the familiar.
It’s a dementia of the heart,
a forgetting of how much
things meant to us
when they were new.
So, I’ve decided to sandbag this leak
with reminders, little notes,
like my granny used to write
about me and my mom
and why we mattered.
I’ll gather the things
I received this year
and I’ll write them each a poem,
a trail of breadcrumbs
that my heart
can hopefully trace
back to delight.