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Mementos
by Beth Stephenson (Mar 2013)
To my home of knitted
afghans
and fragile figurines
I bring a boy:
my son’s son.
He’s only three.
I show him ‘round
my own glass
menagerie:
receptacles
of memory.
Nesting dolls
all the way
from Russia;
Do you see
how they fit?
A model
of a famous
Turkish church;
(He’s never
heard of it.)
Just palm-sized
Terra Cotta
Warriors
and each has
their weapon!
My tall ship
fully-rigged
genuine
knots and sails.
from London.
A painted
mask from
Africa
might scare your
britches off!
Jumping beans
from Mexico
have worms inside
and always
make me laugh.
Soft, thoughtful eyes
in his mild face,
politely waiting,
straining the limits
expected
of small boys.
At last he answers.
“I like your house.
Can I play
with your toys?”
Ah, they’ll be nicked
and chipped and pieces
will be lost:
my glass menagerie,
receptacles of memory.
“Yes, child,
come and play.
We shall reshape
the figures
in an even better way.”
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