Loss

Still Life with a Balloon

Wislawa Szymborska

Returning memories?

No, at the time of death

I’d like to see lost objects

return instead.

Avalanches of gloves,

coats, suitcases, umbrellas

come, and I’ll say at last:

what good’s all this?

Safety pins, two odd combs,

a paper rose, a knife,

some string — come, and I’ll say

at last: I haven’t missed you.

Please turn up, key, come out,

wherever you’ve been hiding,

in time for me to say

You’ve gotten rusty, friend!

Downpours of affidavits,

permits and questionnaires,

rain down and I will say:

I see the sun behind you.

My watch, dropped in a river,

bob up and let me seize you —

then, face to face, I’ll say:

Your so-called time is up.

And lastly, toy balloon

once kidnapped by the wind—

come home, and I will say:

there are no children here.

Fly out the open window

and into the wide world;

let someone else shout “Look!”

and I will cry.

We adjust to loss and learn to move on without that which we imagined we could not live without. But once we come to that realization, there is a certain satisfaction in confronting that reality and acknowleding our triumph over loss.  And yet there is a sadness that still remains. That's my take on this poem.