Trove
I unpack boxes, the stuff you left, nothing that you needed for the afterlife. I am itchy from the yellow age of all these keepsakes: frilly birthday greetings; proof of vaccinations, polio, diphtheria; report cards from St. Cyril’s. I find the ponytail that you cut off, my thick brown hair; and a tiny baby tooth in paper, and in your hand, December 1959. I remember how it felt, my pink tongue hastening its escape from my fresh mouth. I waited for the fairies, but they never came for that little clue, proof that I lived once, at least to five.
Photo Credit: Craig Sunter
This is a fantastic story/poem. I love that tooth and the ending!