I used to reach for it. . .
tiny brass birthday cake-like,
seed-sized oval atop
held the box together
but disaster
if unscrewed, which I did,
many times.
Sun darkened metal, from sitting
on his window ledge,
little side slit
exposed that
red,
white,
and blue
ribbon of stamps.
Black flecks from tarnished
nicks and scratches,
(some from when I dropped it)
my small hands gripped,
rubbed fluffy green felt
underneath.
He used so many stamps
running for office, 
sending spicy letters
to litigants.
I watched the stamp ribbon,
as it dwindled,
he would ask me to
unscrew the little oval
and refill,
as though
a sacred ritual
only we could fulfill.
March 1, 2019
Just Carrie 
LOVE this. Would know what it was even without the picture. Did we, of a certain generation, all have one of these?
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😊 so good
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😊 so good!!
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Thanks for sharing this memory, Carrie…what a gift to have that ritual with your dad. xo nancy
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I love the description of the stamp holder. So evocative.
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Beautiful images here, Carry. Thank you so much for sharing this. I can just picture your young fingers reaching and caring for this sacred family object. May I suggest personalizing it even further by the use of Dad in the second stanza instead of he, and also ending with I instead of we in the last line. It was such an important task he asked of you and I can feel how seriously you were in performing it. Although I never met your father I have heard a great deal about him from Luke. He was a smart, powerful, important man, it seems. I am sorry he died when you were so young. This poem is a fitting tribute to a very special time you shared with him.
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