I found a small
wooden reindeer
ornament with your
name written in a pretty
cursive font across
the front.
Painted and
cut so delicately,
I put it
in-between my teeth.
I
mulled it
through my fingertips
until I could feel some of the
dust mix with the oil
in my skin.
I sat on the carpet
of my new apartment
cross-legged. I
put the ornament
across from me and
let it look straight
at me, I waited
for it to speak,
I waited
for it to tell me
how you have been doing or
that you miss me but
it didn’t feel much like
talking
and I understood.
Here is the crazy part:
I felt sorry for it.
It was small and cut from cheap wood
and it was probably never your favorite
ornament from all of the extravagant ones
your mother bought you, it probably
never meant too much.
But
here it was
in a place you’ve never been,
representing our shared life,
our shared possessions, our
shared meaning.
It wouldn’t speak to me and
I understood because you
won’t speak to me either.
It’s okay, I don’t feel
much like talking.