An ancient jewelry box
Powders and perfumes
In pretty bottles,
One of the first doilies
She made as a girl
Spread over the dresser,
Favorite house slippers
Rest by the bed;
Her rumpled stockings
Still neatly tucked into them.
What remains of a life…
Her fragrance lingering in the room,
Her face held forever young
Next to the love of her life
In the portrait on the wall,
And me,
Left to mourn her.
The Old Things
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