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I sit,
Attempting to pinpoint the moment when I became
Me.
Such a task is
Impossible.
Such a task takes the cosmos,
The infinite,
And packs it into
My grandmother’s jewelry box,
The wooden one, with the ornate carvings
Of tiny birds and flowers.
Beautiful to behold.
They examine it,
Turn it, flip it, run their soft fingertips
Over each rose and dove.
They imagine all of the history,
The memories attached to the box of my grandmother’s,
Then of mine.
And they are impressed.
So, after passing it around to be
Admired in all of its outward splendor, they
Drop
My unopened essence
Atop the mountain of ceramic ramekins painted with bows,
Intricately ornamented Chinese vases,
And the odd music box,
The latch still shut,
Untouched.





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