Gloss and Fracture

The box slammed shut —

sharp knock, a gunshot of lacquer and varnish.

Gloss catching sunlight like stubborn ice,

cracks spidering through polished calm.

Grandma’s scent of wood and old dust

mixed with the faint tang of turpentine.

The shine peeled back, thin as a secret,

flaking over worn edges, stubborn to fade.

Inside, memories stack like brittle cards,

some bent, some folded but none erased.

This box is a map of small fractures —

a bright mask hiding the slow drip beneath.