Things I Come Across While Cleaning My Grandfather’s Attic

A half-tarnished and fully-bent spoon, a pocket knife with blade dulled from idle scratching, a folded map of Vietnam with a tear along the crease in the middle as if it knew what it could have been, empty brass shells.

A canteen as empty and dry as Ho Chi Minh City in early January, a dirtied stack of playing cards with the Queen of Hearts missing, a ball-point pen that could still faintly write, a bronze medallion clinging to the end of purple cloth.

A letter from my grandmother

with worn edges from eager fingers’ grips and smudges

as if rain drops fell onto her words on the page,

her picture in a frame.

Reviews

[Kyle]

This is original and sweet.

I liked this. It almost made me cry for some reason...

[eleanorclaire]

This is beautiful.
I love that the references to Vietnam aren't overt, they flow with the poem quite well!

[idk]

I love this poem. The emotions are just so real! It's great.

[Forest Green]

This is truly an incredible write, poem, golden nugget...! I was moved by each word. The truth of possessions hollowed by experience touches upon the depth of life and survival. I am so amazed by your worthy effort...!

Wonderful work...!