Collecting

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 masters

of 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, unforgettable

detritus that my children will throw away

as I did my mother's souvenirs of trips

with my dead father, Kodaks of kittens,

and bundles of cards from her mother Kate.

--Donald Hall

It's embarrassing, impertinent to compare my life to that of an esteemed writer. But he captures so perfectly my affection for, and compulsion to collect, the detritus of a scattered past.