Corsage

The toy box made of plywood painted white my grandfather built for me when I was three has become a time machine a tool of torture Why haven’t I burned its contents to ash as I did all his letters full of lies? Within I find notebooks in which I penned my pubescent musings that seem so silly now First attempts at poetry that sound trite today when read with a much more mature tongue that has tasted the bitter brew of experience Scribbled quotations from history’s finest minds Sketches of dresses I designed A crumbling corsage of carnations still sealed inside its plastic shell for the last twenty five years that he pinned to my pink Victorian taffeta gown I can close my eyes and recall its fresh flowery scent feel the silky petals under my fingertips the gentle cool early autumn breeze blowing over the river on my young supple skin that single night of my life when every star in the sky seemed to be shining solely for me I had hope then