heirloom

spilled pearls patter on the floor


the broken strand which was once whole


trails from between her childish fingers


and the burn of shame crawls up her throat


fans out on her cheeks.




shall she drop on desperate knees


and flail her arms like one desperate and drowning


pulling the opalescent escapees into her lap


corralled to be restrung and hung


around her innocent neck?




or shall she instead


wait for the thrum of rolling beads to cease


kick the final bead or two beneath the couch


then pocket the thread and walk away


in search of something priceless to cherish?




this is circumstance


and choice and free will


dropped into the unwitting hands of a child


who only wants the pretty thing


as long as it is perfect and whole




she knows not her own power


to render that which was priceless


worthless