Tiny Treasures

the threads between us

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Your room, which was once my room, is filled with tiny treasures.

A found banana soaked into the lining of your hand-me-down vintage leather Coach bag that I purchased while visiting Portland, Oregon the year I turned twenty-one.

A small compass that fits perfectly in the palm of your hand. Gifted to your father when I proposed that we build a life together. 

Three tiny, misshapen cups handbuilt in a Montreal studio where I practiced pottery for the first time. Now filled with imaginary tea that you proudly serve to friends. 

A toy USPS mail truck in an unopened, dusty box that once lived above my grandfather's desk while he researched our family line. A few days after he died, it came home with us, tucked between two sonogram photos of you. 

A red wooden box painted with flowers keeping safe: a placard containing our names, room number, your date of birth and time, height, weight and chest width; a small ziploc bag holding a few cut strands of the black hair you were born with; our hospital bracelets; the hat they placed upon your head shortly after you took your first breath. 

Three ceramic cats of various sizes stacked within each other like nesting dolls waiting for the day they aren’t deemed too fragile to be introduced to you. 

A photo of me, whom you named “baby mama,” when I was around your age wearing a blue striped romper and the same thin blonde hair. 

Blue Iris by Mary Oliver. A collection of poems and essays that we read together one early morning as the earth quickened, inviting the crocuses to unfurl their purple petals.

Those same crocuses, who you thanked as you plucked each stem carefully before handing them to me to place in the vase sitting at the ledge of the window. 

Our matching birthmarks. Sharing the same shape on different bodies in different places. 

Each sentiment works as mycelium, threading your history into mine. 

A reminder that you and I are made of something more than this lifetime.

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