The box came back without a note.
In it, the woolen shawl I bought
to keep her warm, the white
and gold of winter sun, made
in Scotland. I felt five again,
little girl with a frizzy perm
looking down at her shoes.
Lonely, too, as when I knew
by her touch my mother’s
disappointment giving birth
to a daughter, bound to become
a woman like herself.
I was no lovely woolen shawl
she could return
without an explanation.
Latest posts by Elisabeth Murawski (see all)
- A Gift Returned - 23rd May 2021