Little Box

I am seven years old and sitting on the yellow and brown rug

that smells of dirt and scratches the backs of my legs sometimes

And Billy Joel says that home is the Pennsylvania Turnpike

Which must be true because that's where we live.

There are fairy jewels

They float through weak winter sunbeams and dance and dance and dance

In nonsense shapes

And hug the ugly sheer curtains that used to make fine ballgowns when I wrapped myself up in them.

I know it's just dust, but pretending is fun.

The little box

The one made of silky fabric and came all the way from China

The one that stores my secrets

The one that knows

Everything

Is safe at home

And on a shelf

Mama keeps it there like she said she would

Because Mama stores my secrets

And Mama knows

Everything

Because Mama is my safe home.

I am thirty-seven years old and sitting on the red and brown rug

That smells of flowers and feels soft against the backs of my legs

And Ed Sheeran can't wait to come home

The little heart

Of delicate porcelain

Is around my neck

And holds fairy jewels and secret treasures

And Mama's spirit, too.

I know it's just ash, but pretending is fun.