Retirement Poem Four

Cleaning Out My Office

Photographs saved for last,
family chronology in
eleven frames, gilt, maple,
and burled walnut.

No pictures of my beloved — a
gem not unveiled for colleagues,
the firm line between friend and work.

But my daughters, yes — a
daily dose of joy — the rose
and lily, bud and bloom, as budget
cuts decapitate scholarship,
and grant money seizes the crown.

The first photo — me and the
baby veterinarian, 1994 — I am
forty, she, one and a half.
Summer — her frilly pink bathing
suit, compliments my white tank-top
and green running shorts.

Solo shots — three and four,
summertime again, favorite
dresses — Smokey the cat barely
grasped behind his forelegs, wears
a most tolerant grimace.

Number two, the neuroscientist,
arrives four years later. She is
tranquil as the first is active —
and I tumble to the fact that
behavior is a roll of genetic dice.

Decades pass — pictures,
milestones and mundanity,
Sisters together, missing teeth
Bat Mitzvahs and graduations,
Cum Laude and Summa.

Where will these photos hang
in a new life?

How will I hold so much
unearned joy?