Grandmother’s hairpin
You gave it to last night,
you said it was time to let that
crystal hairpin go. With the
flowery, fake pearls,
like your shiny earrings,
the kind that I dislike.
You wore it when you
first met him.
Sleet descending on a
shared umbrella,
splitting a biscuit in two.
Awaiting a bus that
never came.
You wore it when you
finally left him.
Afternoon tea in the garden,
broken glasses and a
flying breadbasket,
falling in common ivy.
I force myself to try it on,
and I can see myself.
Drawing at the kitchen table,
the smell of organic carrot soup,
something glittering in your hair,
your smile.
I think I like it better now.
Signe Maene is from Belgium where she lives in Ghent. She studies English literature.
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