Boxes scattered across the floor,
filled with mindless necessities.
The clothes she rarely wears,
The books still dog-eared,
Their pages unread.
What qualifies these things,
To be the necessities of a future?
The brush once used to tame her raven hair,
or The pictures of past friends,
edges curling with age.
Why are these simple objects of so much importance?
Does the flower he gave her
so many years ago, still hold emotion?
How many "lucky pennies" does it take,
until you are deemed lucky?
Mindless necessities, irrelevant objects,
To the mere onlooker, are just that.
To those connected...
They are our memories