Preserved

I found it in the back of a drawer,

my hand looking for my earbuds.

The amber was warm when I held it—

my palm had been cold from the AC—

and for a second it felt alive,

like something that could pulse.

My mother wore this. I remember

the way it caught light in the car,

the way she'd touch it while driving,

her fingers finding the smooth oval

the way you find a light switch in the dark.

I tried to fasten the clasp at my neck.

My neck was too thick.

The chain wouldn't reach around.

Or maybe the chain had shrunk.

Or maybe I'd grown.

Either way, it didn't fit.

I held it up to the window instead.

The light came through it the way

light comes through old things—

filtered, amber, the color of

something that's been held

by too many hands,

that's been waiting

to be put down.

I put it back.

The drawer closed.

The amber went dark again.