The Things, Donald Hall

THE THINGS
By Donald Hall




When I walk in my
house I see
pictures,bought long
ago, framed and
hanging—de Kooning,
Arp, Laurencin, Henry
Moore—that I’ve
cherished and stared
at for years,yet my
eyes keep returning to
the mastersof the
trivial: a white stone
perfectly round,tiny
lead models of
baseball players, a
cowbell,a broken
great-grandmother’s
rocker,a dead dog’s
toy—valueless,
unforgettabledetritus
that my children will throw
awayas I did my
mother’s souvenirs of
tripswith my dead
father, Kodaks of
kittens,and bundles of
cards from her mother
Kate.

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