I kept my mother’s furniture, some clothes,
last calendar with birthdays marked in bold
and anniversaries too. Her things, like gold,
are treasure to me, sweet as summer’s rose.

One item I still have you might think strange.
From her white hairbrush hair which still was brown,
a soft and precious memory from her crown,
I keep it in a box, will not exchange

it ever from its wooden handmade home.
I lift the lid and look, remember her,
and memories flood back. This makes me sure
I’ve chosen well. I wish I had her comb.