Opening the lid of the box that I’ve forgotten, I
hold my breath like an actress about to discover
a trust that has been kept miles from the truth.
And, my God—I lift the letter gingerly & read how
I was loved & denied in a string of words that no
one explained why it left me utterly homesick.
The lightbulb dims. Yet, I hang on to this
handkerchief with its embroidered flowers
and cube of incense wrapped in green foil;
and a diploma from Vichy that claims I
know how to dream en français. This is
the cobble street swollen with rain—
magnolia trees in bloom. Pink is
pink here—this dried corsage
is something else.
M. J. Iuppa lives on a small farm near Lake Ontario’s shores. Check out her blog for her musings on writing, sustainability & life’s stew.