At the Bottom of the Bottom–object, ode, apostrophe

At the bottom of the bottom
Of my third hand chest of drawers
Lay two portraits of my mother as a departing daughter

I was the last one in our home of 30 years
“Go through the house” my father ordered
Right as we were to leave forever

There you were:  the last thing in the house–nearly overlooked

Now you sit stuck in time
Under my long johns, old t-shirts and decommissioned lace curtains
Encased in stiff manila covers

Clad in your Jackie O copper sequined dress
Black hair set in a style of yore with perfect makeup
Long white gloves and a short veil

In one photo you look down chastely
Like a teen bride
But you were nearly thirty-three

In the other photo your eyes are diverted
Half open, melancholy
As if you were being sold, not married

Your hands were primly clasped on a chair
Not knowing the future
Looking as if you didn’t want to know

Your hands were firmly grasped
On that chair
You did not want to let go…

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9 thoughts on “At the Bottom of the Bottom–object, ode, apostrophe

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