The weight of polished wood

The thrift store smell, stale coffee and dust,

almost hid the particular scent of her house,

then I saw it, dark wood, heavy with rust

on the brass pulls, a dresser, like a spouse

returned from a long trip, familiar.

Same deep grain, almost black where the light

didn't hit, the way the drawers felt familiar,

heavy. The ghost of a finger, tight

on my arm. I can almost feel the cool

of the polished top beneath my palm,

where she'd lay out her beads, or a wool

scarf, her quiet, steady calm.

The wood is solid, doesn't shift,

even when the memory feels too much,

a heavy weight, a stubborn gift,

this wood, that I can almost touch.