VIRB

When the night is at its peak -
she sneaks,
tip toes out of the room, to the closet.

She does not put them on display.
No,
she keeps them,
hidden away in a trunk.

Rapid breaths,
a shiver
a sigh as the locks unsnap.

She lifts the lid of her trunk.

Her first spelling bee certificate,
a dried and bloody band aid He had used,
a cracked pink plastic ring with a butterfly,
her first perfect report card,
a single dress-up shoe,
tarnished gold earrings,
her first lipstick - cherry red,
a napkin - red with pasta sauce, crumbled - that Father used before dying (she was 15).

She digs deeper -

A cap from her first bottled beer,
a wad of gum, wrapped in cellophane, from when He first kissed her,
a joint clip from her first day of cutting school.

She goes further -

A pill bottle Mother used during her battle with cancer,
a condom - crusted hard and shriveled - when she lost her virginity,
a pair of underwear from when she had her first abortion (she was 17).

She pushes aside -

Mother's death certificate, crumbled and folded four times (she was 18),
a GED certificate,
a faded pink flower petal - dried and fragile.

She sits cross-legged, rummaging and reliving.
inhaling, smiling, shuddering, gasping and exhaling in the darkness,
with only the faint light of the moon.