Antiques
Angelina Fazzini I hold you in my hands like a baby I don’t want to drop. Older than a lifetime, wiser than I will ever be. Oh, whisper to me the secrets of your past, and the stories that are hiding in your delicate features. (The scratch on the surface of a first year Washington quarter The fading colors on a handcrafted Hitchcock chair The lead paint on soldiers I can touch only with gloves) Those that once owned you are six feet under, those warm hands that once touched you are now cold, their fruitful age of life now rotten. Over the decades, you see what this world has become. Does this change frighten you as much as it does me? Addendum: Every time I look at my antiques, I wonder what their stories are, and I imagine their previous owners handling them. They are eternal, unlike people. |