She sat the on dyke-wall rocks, speckled in shades of granite and antique brass. The baked-brown dyke grasses undulated towards the Bay’s mud flats. The dykelands held its breath between tides, waiting for the rushing in or out. Water scurrying up fingers towards aboiteaux. Twelve hours later, the ancient wood straining to let the wayward water flow back. She thought of the generations who had looked out towards the Point and the far shore of the Bay. She thought of her family’s gazes.
She opened her journal and wrote:
smoothed by awl
and many hands
faded egg-wash painting
roses, fairies, vegetables, fruit
expectations, dreams, duties
years of holding hopes
linens, quilts, blankets
curls and braids of hair, baby shoes
embraces, farewells, waves
with a lock of antique brass
to shut out the moths and
shut in the memories
I was thinking back to days when attic was the world; the trunk my geography. The antique brass lock opened with a jiggle. Up rose the smell of must, old roses, and dreams. If life could be as simple. But I hide the complexity of those days, until she screams at me to remember.
Written for Color Your World: 120 Days of Crayola: antique brass