Jul 06, 2009 19:53
In the room you sometimes call mine (it is, sometimes), I have left
an earring, hipster-rediscovery. Made from a vintage button, little rose, detailed enough.
A cheap necklace, thrift store find. Worthless metal dogwood pendant.
Some kind of "aura mist", high-vibration!
Spring allergy aid, organic and promising, a possibly useful free sample.
Skull and cross-bones decorated bobby-pin.
The necklace has been here since last summer when it was rescued from a dusty, glass show-case -- what else could hold you, little forgotten bauble, my favorite yard-sale leftover? -- its chain laced through fading red construction-paper, handwritten price tag adorning the corner, a sleepy, woman's script. Who's grandmother died among her possessions one summer afternoon, the heat fogging the window panes, her bedroom entering a new, graceful hush? (who found you, little tarnished one, curled into a corner? Who called you irreparable? How many daughter's hands discarded you in the days following the funeral?)