The speaker is clearing out an attic, and the poem is simply the inventory of what she finds. But the objects add up to a whole life: quilts, ski boots, a wedding gown, children's toys, a dead aunt's prayer books, a father-in-law's last bathrobe. Nothing is explained, so the reader has to piece together marriage, parenthood, family loss and old jobs from the clutter.
The tone is dry and wry rather than weepy. Details like the sleeping bag "he promised would keep me warm" and the broken lamp from "a terrible boss" carry a quiet sting, and the textbooks arguing both Continental Drift and the goodness of God are gently funny. Yet some items feel heavier, like the portrait she forgot to put in her coffin-bound aunt's resting place. The mood is a mix of humor, tenderness and mild regret. Keeping, discarding and remembering all get tangled together, and the list never says which things she'll finally throw out.