Letting Go

My job is a secret, the truth unknown.
For I am the guardian of memories,
Waiting to let go.

I stand guard all night long,
Watching her memories,
Protecting them with everything I have.

My duty is clear: protect her photographs,
Free from damage, safe from strangers,
Kept clean and very pristine.

I am starting to grow old; lines beginning to form,
With a broken back,
I am dying like a rusty old chair.

I am trusted with her personal favourite moments,
But I can’t do it forever.
Slowly I am breaking, crumbling to the ground.