I bank her soul,

on the corner of my desk,

in a pile of her letters

spilling forth

from a compartment

made for

smaller bits.

Years of letters

containing

travel plans,

anecdotes,

weather,

bridge winners,

and losers-

minutia

written to me

with love, warmth,

and humor.

I read the letters

relishing a shadow

of who she used to be.

My death will remove

those embellishments of memory,

fabricated or genuine.

Her correspondence,

now more real

than her ethos,

dumped in the recycling bin

as offspring clean the clutter.