upon her death, i obtain’d my grand-
mother’s wallet. snatch’d it off the dining
room table at an idle point during
the family meeting. having fetched it many
times, many times i was a grand-
son running errands. what grandma called her
legs. be my legs for me today?
i put the wallet with other relics.
my mother’s journal, papers deemed meaning-full,
wedding photos and photos of cousins we
hadn’t seen in years. a trinket that
meant some-thing and nothing at once,
in the world of the past, where
things entered through grief, exited through longing.
one night, i heard the wallet from
the closet or it was my grand-
mother’s voice etched into memory. be my
legs for me today? or i was
dreamin’. drivin’. runnin’ in and out of
the drug-store, the grocery store, the
hard-ware store, and lastly, white castle.
i woke up in exhaust. i woke
up in sadness. i woke up and
walked in the blind-black like a
mad mummy, pushing my way to the
closet. i combed through the world of
the past, feeling for the thick, jagged
leather, hooking a finger in its fold.