artifacts

Artifacts gather on the vanity. A ring made from a spoon handle in the pattern my mom collected. Earrings from the Oregon Country Fair. A necklace that does the trick sometimes, another from the coastal shop where the keeper told me, "French mirrors never lie. Look there. You're beautiful." Two bangles that hold more meaning than value and jangle to the rhythm of my gait.

They gather here when the day ends and I return to the spare truth, unadorned.

When I pass away, no heirlooms will my jewelry box contain. But I like to think that one day my curious tiny grandchild, nestled up on my lap, will ask, "Grams, why do you always wear this?" And I will answer, "We'll, tiny, perfect grandbaby, let me tell you a story..." And then, almost magically, this bit of glass and metal will be imbued with something neither of us could diminish.

Artifacts of vanity...or -properly beheld- little pieces of my self.