Letters to My Son. Kent Nerburn

       POSSESSIONS

      It has happened several times, but the one I remember best was in Oregon.

      I was living alone in a little cabin thirty miles from the nearest town. I had pared my life down to almost nothing; everything I owned I could squeeze into the back of a car. What remained was precious — the winnowing of a life’s actions and choices and decisions. It was my history and my hopes — the meaningful artifacts of my past and the things I thought I needed to move me forward.

      Letters. Books. A doll made for me by a friend. My typewriter. A camera. A stereo. Photographs and manuscripts and diaries and poems. A favorite bowl and some pots and pans. So little and yet so much.