The Weight of Age

I dug it out,

from a box marked 'Misc.'

in the back of the closet,

underneath some tangled chargers.

My grandmother's owl,

solid brass, shaped

like something important.

It sat heavy in my palm,

dense as a secret.

The green film of tarnish

had blurred its sharp edges,

filled in the tiny lines

of its feathers.

Its eyes, once bright,

now just shadowed pits

under a dull, oxidized brow.

I rubbed at it with my thumb,

felt the grit, the cold metal

pushing back.

It wasn't pretty,

not anymore.

Just stubborn.

A forgotten witness,

holding its breath.