My arms are heavy, laden like a Christmas tree with toys and trinkets from a better, sparkling year. Bands of sterling friendship, golden wedding rings of love present and passed on. Watches that kept perfect time in a time so different, never losing sense of seconds, hours, generations ticking by.
I do not need these metal minders of the dead, and yet how appropriate in their endurance. Visible reminders to myself although the world can see them in my face and stance alone. They live inside but hang their shingle on my building, proud signs of who they were and loved and touched with flesh that only touched the things I’m touching now.
Clinks and clanks of bangle bracelets, thunks of heavy golden bands, and time tick-tocking into eternity; the dead are never silent to the living.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology