Computer

Computers are machines.  Cold, hard metal with teensy parts, various ports, slick surfaces, keys and buttons.  If they're old, they're like the dusty jacket, tucked behind all the others, that hasn't been worn in years and probably never will be again.  Newer jackets, the ones in front, are more modern.  They're made of breathable fabric with grommets for chargers and sleeve pockets.  Plus they're faster -- to put on. 

The old, desk-top jacket has got to go.  It's taking up space.  It's just getting... older. 

But who can do it?  Who can box up the jacket that the whole family has used at one time or another?  That a guest has used for a quick location or order or check-in.  Whose deep pockets are stuffed with notes and photos and files and personal data?  Whose very hang-from-the-hanger form reminds you of its owner?  Does anyone have the heart? 

No one slips it on anymore.  No one needs it anymore.  No one wants it anymore.  It has to go. 

Today I erased Bill's old desk-top computer.  The cold, hard metal, warm, familiar Bill-jacket.  Today tears spilled on its lining.  Today I mused over the folders and excel sheets and... photos.  Today I bowed my head in its folds.  Soaked up its whispers.  Savored its scent.  And then I clicked the erase, zipped up the front, and said goodby.  Another goodby.

Computers are metal and warm and oh so many memories.