My mother’s jacket is at my back.
Faded denim stitched onto pilled felt,
a gift I stole with permission.
She bought it in a set of three
a pair of two.
I see her love in every button,
but she’s just grateful it’s getting use.
Twisted shoots grow from the tree I covet,
unable to grow without my care.
I am some benevolent god,
the care of life in my hands.
Spawning new existence from a fat base.
Nature’s beauty
right next to cheap plastic earrings.
An amalgamation of glue and foam,
it’s love signed with little pink hearts.
Made in secret, layers slapped together to form shape.
A gift, from family.
Craft.
Thought and effort poured in, the seams nearly perfect.
The drawn on lines almost straight.
Glossy screen,
framed with dots.
Faded image, bleached out by sun.
I felt beautiful that day,
a permanent capture of feeling.
She even used the expensive film.
Plastic pearl broken from a row of twins
All I could take with me when I left.
Last ballgown, last costume.
Skin misses course, glittery ruffles.
Lips miss red stains. On everything.
So when the bauble rolled to the floor,
I kept it.
When I was a kid, I used to imagine the vivid horrors that could befall me and my family at any moment. Not often, but enough to remember. I want to pretend that this was a normal, healthy developmental tick. I know others my age claim the same thought process. At the very least I’ll assume it was a communal health hazard. Like putting lead in paint, not right but a shared blame.
In these little fantasies I pictured what I would take with me. My little mind imagining what I’d pull from burning, flooded, or crumbling wreckage. Somehow, it always came to my mountain of stuffed animals. I’d be running, with my arms filled with my fluffy treasures.
These thoughts seems to serve as Rorschach test for value. Stand in room of importance, and figuratively light it on fire. What do you want to save?
My coveted, fire-safe objects have changed. A continual readjusting of usefulness and emotional weight. I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t take my phone and laptop. I’m still practical. Yet, I don’t adore gadgets, I need them. It is different.
So light the room on fire, and think only in terms of sentimental value. What do you want to save?
First, I take my mom’s Storm-rider jacket. She has let me borrow it so much that it permanently resides in my room, and I adore it. It has become a part of me, a worn denim skin that I bring with me everywhere I can.
Second, I’d take one of my plants. I love them, and get such a genuine joy when they grow new offshoots or leaves. It is the joy of creation, the joy of watching life flourish at your own hands.
Third, a gift my mom and brother made me. A craft made to resemble an object from a favourite game. It is made of foam, glue, and love. The kind of love that calls for hours in the basement toiling with glue guns and coloured sheets of plastic.
Fourth, a Polaroid of myself dressed for the last night of an overnight trip. A captured image of one of the greatest days of my life. The photo is bleached out from the sun, but you can still see me. I’m framed in the expensive, fancy-bordered, film that my friend had purchased.
Fifth, a fake pearl that fell from my wardrobe costume from Beauty and the Beast. I always take some form of souvenir from my shows, so as this specific pearl broke off, I kept it.
Now put out the fire.
Gif: Gfycat. “Best White Aesthetic GIFs | Find the Top GIF on Gfycat.” Gfycat, Gfycat, gfycat.com/gifs/search/white+aesthetic.
