Legacy

It is a trinket. No more.
An attention-seeking purple centre,
Decorated with Barbie’s pearls,
Suspended by thin black cord.

It captures only her scent,
A whiff of frangipani blossom.

Such a pitiful knick-knack, a tarnished petal
plucked from a once vibrant flower.
But what else remains?

She had walked along a black cord,
The rope untimely severed
No net below.

Promising to return,
She had placed the locket in my hands.
But the summer’s past
And the weight still hangs upon my neck.
No mere trinket.
Brandished upon my chest,
Amidst winter’s chill
I smell the frangipanis in the breeze.