This is what he came down to. It fits in the small of my hand, these remnants. They’re meaningless. Hold no special significance. Two rings. An old key. A chain. Junk. Ephemera, never meant to hold this much weight. It isn’t me that makes them more. It’s the manila envelope, the weary wandering eyes of the man who hands it to me. It’s the cold plaster walls, empty tile floors. These baubles have been imbued, exalted by the finality of all they could have been. But won’t. Two rings. An old key. A chain. I can fit one on the middle finger of my left hand. It might mean something, probably doesn’t. It’s just a band of metal. If I sunk it into the depths of what I want it to be it would twist, distort, melt and slip away. I would have nothing, just an empty envelope. I give the key a story, make it tell tales about his gentle heart, the poetry he would write and the destroy at three a.m. after a night of drinking. Words I’ve lost but this can be a part of them, held in my memory. Except I know it’s not. It’s something he picked up on the walk, nothing he carried, nothing I could feel his presence on. It’s just two rings, an old key, the chain he wore around his neck the day I lost him.
Image courtesy of Hayley Mechelle Bouchard. Her work can be found at Little Cat Photography, and on Our Contributors page.