Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Things I kept

A flat, grey heart-shaped stone found on the beach while walking with a man I didn't love but thought I did at that moment.
A tarnished silver necklace with knots in it, too tight to unravel, which once held a cross.
A butter-colored chicken's foot with sinews attached for animation.
Three Altoids, powdering at the edges, from when kissing was a daily option.
An embroidered handkerchief, with a D sewn into the corner, never washed, but not used much either.
Four collars from dogs already in heaven or those whose necks have expanded due to age or a fondness for vacuuming trash.
Love letters written on onion skin, tied with a torn rag of pink linen sheet, together with postcards from all over the world, in a large orange box smelling of patchouli residue.
A watercolor of a tulip from 'O' level art. Or mock 'O' level.
Knickers no longer with their full compliment of elastic.
Several seasons' hot lipstick color, used once.
A box of Dramamine.
A map of the Antarctic.
Seven different gardening gloves -- not mine -- collected by a black Labrador with OCD.
Christmas ornaments made by the boy -- objectively hideous, subjectively priceless.
A letter from Winston Churchill, not typed.
"Extra" Scrabble tiles.
Flashbulbs for a camera from 1968.
Ribbons, silk, wired, and grosgrain, mostly red, some green, brown, or gingham, all rolled and stuck with tape.
Hannah Montana band-aids. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle band-aids.
A Tingha and Tucker Club LP.
A Blue Peter badge.
A taste for fried egg sandwiches at 1 a.m. after dancing in your arms all night.
An uncanny ability to tie raspberry canes.
A false belief that the dog understands ever word whispered into her ear.
A defense of the sacred truth that all men are fragile.
Two bars of Toblerone.
An oven glove decorated with the white hand print of a three year-old boy.
Seventeen homemade friendship bracelets that have fallen off my wrist.
A taste memory of the cold beetroot soup we made in the Victorian house in Ealing when the smell of your grandfather's orange roses filled the night.
An optimistic heart.
The need to stop and listen to bird song on spring mornings as if it were something utterly new.


bw 2.14.11

4 comments:

legend in his own lunchtime said...

Your wonderful sense of humor and appreciation for beautiful things too

curious said...

That was very beautiful

Wzzy said...

Love this!

ganching said...

I agree this was a lovely poetic post.