An Anchor

There are so few things I love that I can hold in my hand

Maybe it's the lack of tangibility that prokes love

but I think it has to do with the human need to hold onto things

My mother has an old night stand

that is stained a thousand times over from the rings of warm cups of tea

She prides herself on the philosophy of

“if we haven't used it in a month, it must go”

but whenever the 30th of any given month rolls around I keep watch

and I have found that for that little night stand, she holds on

I get this little knot in my stomach now whenever the sun comes out

because last summer I spent time with a boy who kept grounded in this world through my hand

I associate this type of light with being an anchor

and I think if things had ended differently that would have been a positive thing

So now when I cry

because I cry a lot, and I think others should too

I think of my mother with her lack of all sentimental feeling

except when it comes to that night stand

and i think of that boy’s hand and how sometimes he smelled like cigarettes

but sometimes he just smelled like a boy

and I remember that I stay here because all things tangible

or otherwise can provide some reason for us to hold on

My mother has never told me the story behind that night stand

and I know because I would have listened

I would have gone as far as cupping my ear just for a chance to hear about her anchor

because I am looking for mine

both in everything I can touch

and everything I can’t

-Sk