What She Left

She left a wall of white framed photos

of all the places she had traveled.

She left the blue and white Chinoiserie 

she’d spent a lifetime collecting.

She left the furniture and the rugs.

She left a box of family photos in the garage.

She left the view of the Farallon Islands from the balcony.

She left the walk on Shell Beach during the sunset.

She left the rounded cliff’s edge

where the earth had fallen to the sea.

She left the canned goods

and a refrigerator with a few condiments.

She left sheets and pillows and towels.

She left a blanket on the couch

that she used on cold nights where she sat

by the fire and read.

She left the firewood.

She left silverware, vintage plates, and depression glass.

She left the keys on the kitchen table

with a note for the new owner.

The house held its breath as she opened the front door

(every door has its own closing sound),

to which the wind chime played a familiar string of broken chords,

and that was that. She left.