Heirloom

Heirloom

By Amber Counts

September, 2016

I sit at my grandmother’s vanity,

And her eyes stare back at me.

Well, not her eyes, exactly –

Mine lack that degree of warmth –

Her twinkle of wisdom –

But the knitted eyebrows are there –

Furrows that rise into dramatic peaks

When worried about my family

Or relax into sophisticated arches

When at peace,

Over pools of empathic blue.

I used to open the drawers

And peer inside with the excitement

Only a child can muster at the wonders within –

Lipstick tubes made of metal from long ago,

Dramatically Different Moisturizing Lotion

And the trial-size gifts with purchase

That accompanied it,

Wrinkle creams that were utterly unnecessary

On the smoothest, kindest face.

Beauty from within belied the years,

As youth was always a state of mind.

My arms rest on the smooth edge

Of the worn, wooden top

Where the paint has eroded away

Under decades of graceful arms resting there –

Arms that wrapped around me

In hugs that enveloped me in love,

And it pains me that those embraces

Live only in my memory.

So I place my arms alongside the ghosts of hers

And wonder:
Will my arms mean as much to the world?