Velvet
By Barbara Buckley Ristine
Cleaning the attic today,
I opened the box marked Christmas
and I thought of you, mother.
Reaching in, I felt velvet caress my fingers.
An evening bag of midnight black,
adorned with a broken rhinestone clasp,
a small moth hole eaten at the edge.
Inside, the faintest scent of Shalimar.
I buried my nose in the cool silk lining
to breathe in the memory of your face
with those wintery dark eyes
and that scarlet lipstick,
the one you only wore to parties.
Your diamond earrings, made of glass,
would twinkle in the light as you
rummaged in this velvet bag,
searching for your golden compact.
You checked your makeup, your
hand touching that tight twist
of coal black hair,
making certain no curls escaped.
That mass of dark curls the chemo
Tore from you even as it failed
To tear the cancer from your breast.
And here you are again,
with me in this dusty attic,
frowning your displeasure.
You mocked me,
said I was nothing,
no child, no husband.
At the end, you barely spoke,
but your words found their mark.