Will de Kypia

~

     

To guard her treasures my mother found a worn

wicker jewelry box. Inside, 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 those blood drops on her pillow.

The tiny ivory elephant she might ride away someday.

To remember her dreams my mother kept a journal.

With indelible ink she described that enchanted world

she dwelt in while asleep. Her small but elegant townhouse.

Private dinner parties at stylish restaurants, their menus

handwritten in French. And cultured, 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 bad nights they would cling

to each other and she'd explain again what powers each

treasure possessed, how hopes make dreams be true.

Her someday glittered in his soft blue eyes.

  ~

My mother is alone now, asleep in her grave.

The box and the book are nearby, but the boy is

far away. He never had treasures or dreams

or hopes of his own, and he got tired of

waiting for someone else's someday.

➺

~