To guard her treasures my mother found a jewelry box

made of lacquer lined with silk. Inside, curios reposed like

butterflies pinned to a board. Her favorite necklace, the coral

beads a gentler shade of red than those blood drops on her

pillow. A sandlewood fan, all its scent long lost to time.

The tiny ivory elephant she might ride away someday.

To remember her dreams my mother kept a journal.

With pen and perfumed ink she described that gracious

world she dwelt in when asleep. A charming townhouse.

Private dinner parties at elegant restaurants, the menus

handwritten in French. Her cultured, caring friends.

Friends she'd meet when someday finally came.

To share her hopes my mother bore one child, a son.

He was blue-eyed, silent, as steady as sweet grass in the

wind, and she adored him so. On the bad nights they'd cling

to each other while she explained again what powers the

treasures possessed, how hopes make dreams be true.

In his soft blue eyes she could see her someday.

Now my mother sleeps alone in a better place.

The box and book are with her, the boy is far away.

He never had treasures or dreams or hopes of his own

and he got tired of waiting for someone else's someday.

                                                                                                             -Will de Kypia

_____________________________________________________________

  ➺