Three Things My Mother Had 
 

Three Things My Mother Had

 
 












To guard her treasures my mother had a jewel box

of lacquer lined with silk. Within, those baubles were

arrayed like butterflies pinned to a board. A fan that

once smelled of sandalwood. Her favorite necklace,

coral beads brighter than the blood drops on her pillow.

The tiny ivory elephant she'd ride away someday.


To remember her dreams my mother kept a journal,

black-pebbled leather and perfumed ink. In it she told

imaginary tales of her real life. The elegant townhouse

she'd live in. Gourmet dinners at fine restaurants with

menus handwritten in French. Those stylish friends

who would call when someday finally came.


To share her hopes my mother bore a son.

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

in the wind, and she adored him so. On bad nights

they cuddled while she explained the powers each

treasure held, how hopes make dreams be true.

In his blue eyes she saw...someday.


My mother has a grave to keep herself in now.

The box and book are with her but the boy is far away.

He had no treasures or dreams or hopes of his own,

and he understood that someday never comes.

William de Kypia

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