Whir
by Marjorie Power
published in Peacock Journal, 2017
Preparing to market our last house we sort mugs, linens, boots, books, hooks in little plastic drawers
nesting bowls and winter coats. We choose which furniture to sell – trestle table, fairy tale bed. We circle
through each carousel of tiny photos
meant to be seen projected large on a bleach-white screen
left at Goodwill before we moved here. Left with its partner, that machine whose whir meant all’s right with the world.
My husband cranes his neck. He squints. Scenes we’ve selected appear on his device. He clones them in a blink and each flies off.
They return, oddly colored, in fat envelopes. Ready for albums to place solidly on the table where grandchildren sit.
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