What Tarnish Is

She asked me why the ring was dark.

I told her, "Things get old like everything."

She looked at it like I'd left a mark

I hadn't meant to. Like the dulling

was something I'd done deliberately.

Like tarnish was a choice. Merely

the result of not caring enough

to keep it polished. Not rough

handling, but rough neglect.

I haven't looked at it closely in years.

It sits on my finger. Time clears

away attention. You stop seeing

what you wear every day. The being

of the object becomes background

until someone asks you to explain the sound

of its fading. Until your daughter

points at the dark spots and you're caught

between truth and protection.

Five years since I've looked in real light.

The tarnish isn't even. It caught

unevenly. Some parts still bright,

some parts darkened like they've been fought

over by time. Like time works faster

on some sections. Like there's a master

pattern to decay. Like aging

isn't democratic. Like the waging

of years is unequal.

I could clean it. Restore it

to what it was—silver and bright.

But maybe tarnish is just the story it

wears now. Maybe it's right

to let it mark itself. To let it show

the time that's passed. To let her know

that some things become more beautiful

when you stop trying to keep them dutiful

and just let them be what they are.