The Gift I Kept Moving

I said I loved it right away,

before she'd finished handing it across —

a ceramic dish, oval, for keys to lay

in by the door. Small gloss

of a painted finch on the bottom, tan

and gray on white. She'd wrapped it in tissue.

I made my face do what it can

when it needs to, and the issue

was closed. She smiled. I put it in my bag.

I've moved it four times since —

each apartment, the dish makes the drag

from box to kitchen, never used, no evidence

of a key, a coin, a ring.

Just the finch looking straight ahead.

I don't even like birds on things.

I didn't then.

She's been gone from my life four years or more.

Today I picked it up to pack it for the fifth

move and actually looked at it.

The floor was bare around me.

I almost put it in the trash.

I wrapped it in a shirt.

Put it in the box.

The finch looks straight ahead.

The box is in the truck.