What She Kept

She saved them in a butter container, pale plastic, worn,

rubber bands in every color—purple, red, white, and corn,

all faded, all brittle, wound in that yellowed plastic space,

collected for a reason that left no trace.

I found it when I was clearing her drawer, the one I shouldn't touch,

and something about that pointlessness mattered so much.

These rubber bands, these simple bands she kept and wound,

what was she waiting to hold, what reason did she sound?

The container is still in my lap. I haven't thrown it away.

The bands are so fragile they'll snap if I don't stay

careful, but careful for what? For whom? For when?

I'm keeping her hoard like it matters. I don't know why. Again.