Pockets

Grandfather’s pockets burst with things
Pockets rich with a metallic clinking
A scattering of coins, a pocket knife, a collection of keys on rings

My daughter’s pockets aren’t quite clean
Pockets charmed with an elfish winking
A penny (heads-up), sweets gained without strife, weightless of burdensome things

My own two pockets stress not at seams
Pockets enhanced with a digital thinking
Access to accounts, a scheduled life, a collection of buzzes and rings

Time’s pockets conceal what all of this means
Pockets enchanted with a perpetual shrinking
A gathering of hearts, a curious life, a passion of pulses and rings

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Post Script

I wrote this poem by looking into the pockets of three generations: my grandfather’s, my daughter’s, and my own. Each seemed to carry a different age.

My grandfather’s pockets held useful, tangible things. My daughter’s held sweets, a lucky penny, and the relative lightness of childhood. My own carried fewer objects, but gave access to accounts, schedules, messages, and obligations that were harder to see.

We rarely notice these exchanges while they are happening. Coins become numbers, keys become passwords, and a child’s lucky penny becomes a memory. What we carry changes along with us.

The final pockets belong to time. They hold our relationships, interests, routines, and living bodies, but their remaining space continually grows smaller. Looking back, I feel tenderness for all three lives and for the ordinary things that accompanied them.

Image credit: Farmer and the Bird, also known as Harvest Time (1923), Norman Rockwell. Cover art for The Saturday Evening Post, August 18, 1923. Public domain in the United States.