It was
my brother’s ring
– heavy – worn –
surely too large
for his small hands
as it is for mine.
I wear it, tape
wrapped ‘round
as to fit my finger.
It is
my rememberance
my worry stone
it is another age,
another time
when I was young
when he was alive
and we were all
apart of that
dysfunction.
It is
my youth – weakness
and anger – before
I grew strong,
but memories
are just that
and thoughts of you
will come one day
without worry
without the need
to actively recall
what I had done.
