Will de Kypia

  ~

  

To guard her treasures my mother found an antique

velvet jewelry box. Within, the curios were arrayed like

butterflies pinned to a board. A sandlewood fan, all scent lost

to time. Her favorite necklace, its coral beads a gentler

shade of red than the blood drops staining her pillow.

The tiny ivory elephant she'd escape on someday.

To remember her dreams my mother kept a journal.

With lavender-scented ink she described the enchanted

world she dwelt in while asleep. A comfortable townhouse.

Private dinner parties at fashionable restaurants, menus

handwritten in French. And sensitive, caring friends.

Friends she'd meet when someday finally came.

To share her hopes my mother bore one child, a son.

He was blue-eyed, silent, as steady as sweet grass in the

wind, and she adored him so. On the bad nights they'd cling

to each other as she explained again what powers those

treasures possessed, how hopes make dreams be true.

She saw her someday in his soft blue eyes.

  ~

My mother is alone now, asleep in her grave. The

box and book are near but the boy is far away.

He had no treasures or dreams or hopes of his own

and couldn't wait forever for someone else's someday.

   ➺