Mementos are the strangest things.
Sunday in a sachet,
Monday they’re a shrine.
Warded by my candles
like a presidential guard.
The last of the
stones you gifted
never skipped. The french
fries from that final
meal together—
why you chose McDonald’s
you couldn’t say—
but I’ve heard they’ll keep
a hundred thousand years.
The pair of mismatched
socks, each with a mammoth
hole. It was the last time you would
laugh. Toes like the heads of
turtles pushing through. Now hung
upon the hooks that
sport your trinkets—Dollar Tree to
the world. Tiffany’s to me.
Wayne Newton’s Greatest Hits—
the way we cringed together.
Danke Schoen? No thanks.
But today enthroned in glory.
The ticket
from our penultimate
drive together—
90 in a 30—
right before the hospice,
how the officer
never heeded
my excuse—the sun is
going down in 20 minutes—
a bauble in the pocket
of the earth.
The sand
I’ve never shaken
from my shoes.
A beach that trudges
with me every step.
The chafing from its grit.
Andreas Gripp
October 20, 2026
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