December 7, This Year

The attic welcomes her back:

floorboards creak beneath worn slippers,

porthole windows smudged with soot,

dawn struggles, obscured by black clouds.

The gray metal locker, dented and stained,

lies undisturbed beneath crashing eaves.

The small crate is still there

by the window.  She sits;

no more youthful repose for arthritic knees.

She fumbles with the brass lock,

tarnished, tainted with rust.

The cover groans.

Slender hands trace the string of pearls as they

lay silent in the satin lined box.

Her squinting eyelids quiver, then shut

for just a moment

With a slow exhale she closes the velvet lid.

Veined hands search beneath an ocean of blue tissue,

caressing waves of chiffon and tulle,

rose-polished fingers float across, then stop

upon a row of iridescent shells,

like beaded islands veiled inside a gray sunless sky.

The bottom of the locker preserves her treasure;

a flat cardboard box,

her name and address neatly written in black marker.

Inside, a sea of crimson greets her.

She traces fingertips along intricate stitching;

brocaded dragons skillfully woven into fine satin.

The elegant kimono,

rests eternally in the bowels of the battered locker.

A December wind assaults her,

then retreats.

The Rising Sun breaks through the clouds and

once again invades her world.

© Copyright pending Susan R. O'Brien