Keepsakes

Mementos are the strangest things.

Sunday in a sachet,

Monday they're a shrine.

Warded by my candles

like a presidential guard.

The last of the

stones you gifted

never skipped. The french

fries from that final

meal together—

why you chose McDonald’s 

you couldn’t say—

but I’ve heard they’ll keep

a hundred thousand years.

The pair of mismatched

socks, each with a mammoth

hole. It was the last time you would

laugh. Toes like the heads of

turtles pushing through. Now hung

upon the hooks that

sport your trinkets—Dollar Tree to

the world. Tiffany’s to me.

Wayne Newton’s Greatest Hits—

the way we cringed together.

Danke Schoen? No thanks.

But today enthroned in glory.

The ticket

from our penultimate

drive together—

90 in a 30—

right before the hospice,

how the officer

never heeded

my excuse—the sun is

going down in 20 minutes—

a bauble in the pocket

of the earth.

The sand

I’ve never shaken

from my shoes.

A beach that trudges

with me every step.

The chafing from its grit.

Andreas Gripp

October 20, 2026

photograph: Curly Photos / Getty Images