A poem written after they died: "Witch Haze"

There’s this lump in my throat that I carry with

the same skewed reverence as my broken sapphire wallet.

I hold it extra close in the grocery stores, in public, even though it’s not of any value to a stranger.

It’s embarrassing, really, because it causes me to fumble for my debit card at the register, makes me frustrated in crowds of people, makes me seem broke…

I’m not sure what I should do with it—what I can do with it.

Perhaps that’s caused me to coddle it a bit like some rescue pet,

because some priest on the Sunday cable channel said we should value all gifts.

And it was a gift bestowed unto me with my mother’s voice, and my father’s silence.

I don’t know what will happen if I let it go.

Won’t it just end up somewhere else, but less understood? Less appreciated? Less known?

Edit: I threw it away circa 2020.