My Fear

From the cushioned chairs, to the old grandfather clock, to the sailboat keeper of time, to the messy, envelope-and- sticker and plastic-plant-in-a-vase-covered table, to the clear, glass coffee table, to the stuffed animal-covered couch, to the Fabergé-like eggs, on a metal, decorated platter, to the mp3 standing on the thicker-than-normal windowsill, to the oddly, but impossibly familiar rug, 

I know, that in the future, all of these things are inevitably going to change, 

and when they do, no matter how much time I’ve taken to prepare for what’s to come, I’ll never be ready for them to be gone. From the white, flower-embroidered, cushioned, wooden chairs, that will probably go to my family, when my grandparents eventually inevitably die,

to the old, wooden grandfather clock, with a smaller-than-normal clock face with a golden minute and hour hand, but we already have one so it will most likely end up being sold as if it was never a part of my grandparents’ lives, as if they never even lived, as if they were just a small dent in the world, a world so cruel, that it won’t care when they’re no longer here, 

to the wooden sailor-in-a-sailboat time-keeper teetering back-and-forth, trying to create a balance with what it has, all that it has, that will probably be given to their grandchildren or the child who wants it the most, to the brown, wooden, forever-messy desk, white medical envelopes and multicolored stickers covering it, with a plastic-cherry-blossom-in-a-vase, that, possibly, I’ll get or maybe someone else,

to the elegant, glass and wooden coffee table, that my cousins might inherit, to the three pink, green and red stuffed animal-covered, milk-chocolate-colored, faux leather couch that’ll probably get sold off or given to whoever needs it most in our extended family, to the colorfully-decorated Fabergé-like eggs on a gold-and-white flower-patterned metal platter, that my family will probably inherit, to the leaf-green mp3 player with a slick design, standing on the white, thicker-than-normal windowsill, the mp3 player which will probably be sold, which will make it feel like it never even belonged to my grandparents, creating the illusion

that they were never really here, on earth,

to the oddly, but impossibly familiar, red-and-gold rug

I know

that all of these things are going to change: when my grandparents are no longer living, the world won’t care. Their house might be sold and everything will be gone to the point that no one would ever even think they existed. But I’ll know, and unlike the world, I’ll have to find a way to accept that they’re gone.