Stamp Box Ritual

IMG_6792

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,                  IMG_6791

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

6 thoughts on “Stamp Box Ritual”

  1. 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.

    Liked by 1 person

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