Old friends


Old friends is a place,

in your heart,

like battered suitcases,

carried from town to town, to home and back.

Full of pictures, laughter, sad times and wine with crackers,

the tears from hard days and nights.

 

We carry old friends,

never leaving them behind or in a dumpster,

tied up in plastic sacks,

driven away from and never looking back.

We save that for enemies.

Old friends come with us,

wrapped carefully like precious bone china,

stored in the cupboards of our heart and clearly labelled,

Fragile.

 

One day we find them again,

and we bring them out to wine and dine with again.

We remember, oh we remember and it’s still too funny

but not sad, well a bit.

We are grateful that we lived,

to watch another sun set,

over another meal together.

Sitting on the suitcases of our lives,

unwrapping the precious and the fragile,

comforted by the familiar,

sharing the dust of lives thoroughly lived.



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