Did I learn the word from Marty Weisinger,
my father’s Army buddy who traveled 400 miles

ages ago to introduce my sister and me to the only
Jewish deli in Sacramento, to experience giant

kosher pickles and pastrami for the first time?
Or perhaps my father used it, he the Lutheran

raised outside Chicago, it and other Yiddish
words making their way into my vocabulary.

And there’s really no better word for it as I
begin to clear out a storage space I’ve paid for

for far too long, with help from the 79-year-old
sweetheart who should not be schlepping but wants

to lend a hand and take photos, and the 28-year-old
assistant, a master schlepper/organizer (bless her).

I claim my lifelong habit as an acquirer, now
doing my best to un-acquire, shed a lifetime

of acquisitions—or at least the ones of lesser
importance, the what was that for? and

the easily let go. And so we three schlepp
and load, drive home, unload, adding,

for the moment, to the garage collection
waiting for sorting, stirring in me, at least,

a desire for good pastrami and (thank you,
Marty) don’t forget the pickle.