let there be nothing

my grandmother collected plastic bags.

not the grocery store kind. the fancy ones

with rope handles and elegant logos printed on the side

and colors like forest green and noble blue.

the kind with creases that fold nicely

so she could stack them neatly

in other bags

on the closet shelf,

sorted by size and durability.

and in the beginning,

I was fascinated.

I could imagine what they held

(scarves, undergarments, jewelry, books, Hungarian spices),

though intrigue lay not in the things they once carried

but the universe of what they might hold.

when she died

those carefully folded and sorted bags

ended up in the trash (another bag).

because no one but me

understood the sublime mystery

of the negative of naught,

the absolute value of possibilities,

a cat in a bag both alive and dead.

there was a time before I was born--

I was told when I reached a certain age--

when my grandmother’s family was

both alive and dead.

war had carried them away

while only she escaped,

leaving

an unknowing that filled every empty

crevice of her life and

stuffed her imagination

with cruel wonderings

that never escaped into words

while the knowing lay in wait

and gnawed the bones of her soul

for as long as she had life

and her family (my kin) did not.

which makes me wonder

if her wondrous bag collection

was kept in secret like a curio closet,

or like the darkness of a closed door

protecting the present from the past.

and it makes me wonder

what will happen to the bags

I’ve stashed on my basement shelf,

when I am let out of the box

someday.

then let there be nothing

but uncontained knowing

of all that could be but never was

and the wonderment of a universe

that holds all things.

Note: How can a cat be both alive and dead?