The Jewelry Box

 The Jewelry Box

Days after your passing, Dad said, “I want–

Mom wanted–you to take her jewelry box.”

I did as I was told, and put the gold-

Tooled, black leather box with its lift-up top

And compartments lined in bright red velvet

In the trunk of my Beetle after Dad 

And I took note of your treasures. Among them: 

Two pins for completing ski lessons at 

Mt. Snow on your honeymoon (‘64), 

A Friendly’s silver-dollar award for 

Outstanding waitressing (‘80), silver

Rings you wore every day, your grandmother’s 

Engagement ring, souvenir jewelry Dad 

Bought you on your adventures South and West, and

A dog tag that once belonged to Sammy–

Dad’s Christmas present to you on your  first 

Christmas in your new house, named for you, whose 

Nickname was Sam, and whose name you would give

To me.

The mangled tag recalls the bus

That killed Sammy while returning Vikki

From the first grade. I stood by you while we 

Waited for the bus; with you I heard the thud.

We buried Sammy in the lower back, 

And you made her a cross of twigs. This was 

My first big loss, my first encounter with 

The brutality of circumstances

Delivered free to our doorstep by chance.  

You never spoke of it, never said a 

Bad word about school buses or even 

That driver.

Opening your jewelry box,

I feel the pain with you and understand 

The grief you bore quietly and alone

In the interest of getting on, putting 

Dinner on the table, keeping the peace.

Here is your story; I am your witness:

This is our life.