My friend carries a heavy purse,

rough and scratchy as an old burlap sack.

It drags her fragile left shoulder down,

she slumps with the weight.

Sometimes I can coax her

to dump the contents on my kitchen table.

In a frenzy of housecleaning,

we throw things away:

gaunt knobby sticks of sorrow,

the thin whip of guilt,

hundreds of sharp-edged pebbles

called What if?

We repack the burlap sack

with ribboned parcels, just a few,

and candied thoughts and chocolate kisses

and a jarful of joy. I try to keep

her busy hands from adding to the bulk,

wish I‚d stitched the empty bag

closed.