flint
ovenbird In a bag of jewelry stashed in my mother’s closet is a handful of gold rings, all of them too large for my fingers. Some are plain bands, some are set with gemstones, some are inscribed with scrollwork. All of them meant love once. My mother’s father, my Gidu, owned a hotel with a bar. People would sit on the barstools, order drinks, and take off their wedding rings, leaving commitment in a puddle of spilled beer and cigarette ash. Sometimes people forgot to collect their rings at the end of the night, having found some fresh dalliance or having drowned their unsuccessful sorrows. Gidu collected the cast off promises and stashed them in a box. Now I can hold them in the palm of my hand, feel the weight of words that were once exchanged with voices gauzy with emotion, feel the cold bite of disillusionment. How many broken hearts can I thread onto one finger? How many lies does this glint of gold represent? Mom asks if I want any, but I decline. I won’t wear deception as an ornament. I won’t be haunted by the spurned. When I place my hand on the pulse of one I love it will not be with lies sparking against the flint of my heart. 250806
what's it to you?
who go
blather
from