Initials

We found it in the back of the last drawer—

brass, monogrammed, heavy. A formal gift

from someone. We couldn't find the store

or the occasion. She held it. A shift

of something in her face. She said she wasn't

sure. We asked again, gently. She looked

at the window. Not the brass. The present

moment only. The initials, booked

into the metal, worn smooth but there—

not hers, not anyone we could place.

We wrapped it in a dish towel. Somewhere

in the next box, a clock face,

no clock.

Neither of us brought it up again.