snapshot. For my mother




A pale handkerchief

Sits inside a hardcover book.

The fabric

As I hold it up against my face

Feels cool and smooth


Faintly of musty books

And old summer cottages.

But there is another smell,

A comforting smell of

Sweat and skin.

I don’t really think this scent could linger

For so long

Yet my memory

Recalls it

As I touch

The creases of the fabric


let it slip through my fingers

Letting it rest on an open page of a Milan Kundera book

Page 11

Where 3 sentences have been highlighted
In orange marker
And the metaphors are somehow woven into the faded fabric. J. Hamilton