After her death,
We cleared out Mother’s house.
Among the found things were
A stained brown envelope with a marriage license from 1932
A jewelry chest full of baubles we never saw her wear
In with the baubles, wrapped in plastic, someone’s baby teeth
An old leather bound Bible we never saw her read
Pressed within its pages, a ringlet of hair, mine I am sure
A four leaf clover
A dried dragonfly
My baby picture, wallet size
In her ancient trunk,
A folded fur, musty smelling
A letter belonging to her mother, who had a lover, dated 1887
Inside the fur, opera glasses
A moth-eaten raggedy Ann (her childhood friend?)
Hat boxes without hats
In fuzzy black and white, she and Dad on the grass
A new brown envelope from the Hospital
She never showed us, never showed us.
All gone now.