Dru Philippou

At the Close

A crystal chandelier sheds glittering light over the "sold" ivory wing chair. I rummage through a box of cream lace doilies and table-runners by the hushed aisle of books. Handbags and hats are up for grabs, including ball gowns and an array of vintage dresses, but nothing so far soothes. In the bric-a-brac, I find a tea cosy like my grandmother's and slowly bury it under the pile.

beyond
the child's fingertips
weight of longing
a heart-shaped stone
hangs from a ribbon