Treasure

Links of fine silver lie heavy in my hand.
Curved, rectangular, flat, they loop through the next
link and the next, just as they link also through my
heart. Ebony tarnish coats the metal, nearly as dark

as the soil on my sister’s grave. If memories had a
physical form, they would feel like the necklace;
rough with age, a gift from childhood.
Now, my wrinkled hands grip onto the last

solid memory that is left to me…and then let it fall.
It takes an age to drop and then
it hits the ground. I repeat aloud the last
words she said to me: ‘not all treasure

is silver and gold.’ With a small smile, I turn my back
and walk away.
I have all the treasure that I could wish for
in my memories, but there still isn’t a thing
I wouldn’t do
to have her back.