I touch the dusty lamp

delicate, soft, lingering touch

as though I might time travel

to that living room of yesteryear

be seven again –

with all the hope and innocence of a kitten

But I’m not three – three was scary

confusing slaps stung my face

over ice cream and desperation to please her

gain her love –

that magical, elusive smoky element

…things from my childhood.

He kept

he despised this throwaway society

he believed in repairing

fixing

keeping

cherishing

loving

While she destroyed

diminished

belittled

punished

Her legacy of disposable people

and love as a cheap fleeting

whimsical commodities like devotion

continues

His legacy of value dies with me

I failed in all the ways

he succeeded…

Tossed away

along with all these priceless trinkets

like hopeful childish faith

will be nothing but

rubbish.

The dusty old lamp of his legacy

dies with me.

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