While death sucked out her last breath
And withdrew the light from her staring eyes
Family members perched round Minnie's bed,
Birds of prey twitching their restless beaks.

Time to swoop on her belongings
And sort and sift, grab and discard
Till all those sweet familiar articles
Were strewn in heaps and boxes.

"I'll have that", "Who wants this?"
They squabbled and tugged and spoiled.
And what was left was slung outside:
"Help yourself to what's left of Minnie's life."

That's all we are: a heap of stuff
Collected lovingly, left with regret,
And pilfered or thrown away
By our nearest and dearest.

We may live on in a teapot
Or a carefully starched piece of lace,
In a sepia print of a bygone wedding
Preserved in a family album.

Or we may live on in a thought.
Our bodies burned or rotted away,
Our stuff destroyed or gone,
Someone, one day might say:

"Do you remember Minnie?"
"Who?"