Dragon

I will never own that dragon,
Forever shrouded in mystery,
Figment of my imagination.
Small, Gold with intricate detail.
Was it holding a purple gem?
Or breathing fire?
Did it have long talons or terrible teeth?
It lived in a night blue velvet box,
I still run my fingers up and down it,
Feeling each short thread under my shaking hands.
A note with my grandmother’s beautiful cursive,
Lonely inside.
The pendant dragon now travelling the world,
Stolen.
A gift of my grandmother’s love,
A dragon for the year of my birth.
Not old enough to appreciate it,
I will never be,
But the real gift of love can never be stolen,
Even now she is gone.