shaking hands, knots in stomach
sweat under the arms, imagining
my life into a graveyard
unable to breathe in a grocery store,
while driving down the freeway,
stare at nothing, pace the room:
this is my heirloom
handed down, lasting generations
I would have preferred a quilt, something
to keep me warm, a hope chest with
a wedding dress, a rocking chair
instead, take my chest full of aching,
these cold hands, wrap it all around you
turn it over — do you see all those initials engraved
on the bottom? Do you see everyone
who held this before you?
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Grace Moore is a writer from Washington. She writes fiction, creative nonfiction, and the occasional poem. She also writes articles on travel, mental health, writing, and books. Sometimes she’s funny, or at least that’s what her mom says. Follow her on Instagram @gracieawriter.