The Gift

It's a ribbon I found, lying on the stone sidewalk, under the wind, so delicate and sheer, such deep green even on a grey day, outside a grey building, on the grey ground, that it stopped the tears welling in my eyes when I saw it, and bent to pick it up.

It's a box I took, from the closet in my sister's old room--both of theirs, at one time--where all the wrappings of years of Christmases and birthdays are kept on one side, overflowing with colors, and on the other hang my grandmother's best dresses and suits, many made by her own hand, most too small for any of us to try, except by holding them up in the mirror.

It's a piece of glass, worn by the river, discovered one summer by my brother who sees such things, like magic, handed to me as an offering, which I accepted, and held to the light, in which I saw concentric rings of tiny dots, and next to them, four letters:

E
V
E
R