Artifacts

Literally Literary and The Writing Cooperative prompt

Dust coats the curved surface
There should be shine,
But neglect has its patina too: the soft felting of years
Silver blackening underneath, monogram and filigree obscured.

These were my grandmother’s things, she brought them from the Old Country…

A hand mirror and hair brush, bristles bent,
withered, worn down with five generations’ use —
her words echo distantly, easing the emptiness.

On another shelf, beside the windows
Books
leather bindings disintegrating, the pages worm-eaten —
edges nibbled away —
Yellowed, brittle, smelling of wood smoke and mildew.

Daddy learned to read from these. Not from his parents, they mostly spoke German and couldn’t read even in their own language. But Fred Johnson —

Inside the cover, ink faded to dull green,
the name is scrawled, still legible

— he worked the farm for fifteen years with them, and he taught Daddy and Aunt Gert.

Slowly pronounced words, sounded out by rosebud mouths,
Giggles when mistakes are made,
a hot-tempered boy stomping his foot…
long ago learning, the blooming of young minds.

On the dresser, atop a fraying, yellowed doily,
a sea shell,
its delicate inner curves the faded rose of a summer sun long set;
beside it a matchbox,
inside the tiny wooden drawer
dried rose petals, youthful sighs,
summer romance,
dance hall nights, giddy, magical,
A farewell that lasted a lifetime.

Relics
tokens curated by time, accident, sentiment,
their stories told and retold;
left behind, they are unquiet.

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