Pinecones
The trees that the pinecones came from are far from here. They smell like pine if you can imagine it, and can promise that you won’t say they don’t smell like anything. They won’t ever have a chance to grow, but their siblings could have, long years ago.
I think if I still have them by next year, they’ll have a real place on my desk because that’s where the best decorations go, since they’ll look cleaner and get to be dusted and can have a purpose that’s unsentimental and can be put in a jar with other plant-like nic-nacs.
But next year, my parents could sweep them off my desk to the trash with not so much as a second glance, which is sad since the pinecones hold memories. They are fragile and work like an old journal to read. They show me naming the big rock in the woods and mudstained old jeans and losing track of time while sliding down hills and parents called names and lots of things that I don’t remember very often.
I never see the pinecones until I look behind my mirror, and even then there’s too much junk to really see them. They are always there next to the grape spirals and acorns. When the light in my room goes out, the glow from my charger sends their shadows sprawling, pinecones stretch and distort and it doesn’t matter if I’m asleep or if the junk send shadows too or if the memories don’t unearth themselves. What matters, the pinecones remind, is to not forget or be forgotten. And since I my hair keeps getting shorter and since my eyebrows get cleaner and since I keep getting older than them in many ways, the details become more and more forgotten, but the pure form of memories stay put and feel nice ways like I am the sunlight on top of the rock, let me take your sadness away. And the pinecones just sit there without even rocking from the window’s breeze and are not shaken.
Pinecones, beside the lamp, collecting dust, are growing into trees somewhere. I know. Are waiting for the sadness to go, a friend to come, something to move them elsewhere.
I think if I still have them by next year, they’ll have a real place on my desk because that’s where the best decorations go, since they’ll look cleaner and get to be dusted and can have a purpose that’s unsentimental and can be put in a jar with other plant-like nic-nacs.
But next year, my parents could sweep them off my desk to the trash with not so much as a second glance, which is sad since the pinecones hold memories. They are fragile and work like an old journal to read. They show me naming the big rock in the woods and mudstained old jeans and losing track of time while sliding down hills and parents called names and lots of things that I don’t remember very often.
I never see the pinecones until I look behind my mirror, and even then there’s too much junk to really see them. They are always there next to the grape spirals and acorns. When the light in my room goes out, the glow from my charger sends their shadows sprawling, pinecones stretch and distort and it doesn’t matter if I’m asleep or if the junk send shadows too or if the memories don’t unearth themselves. What matters, the pinecones remind, is to not forget or be forgotten. And since I my hair keeps getting shorter and since my eyebrows get cleaner and since I keep getting older than them in many ways, the details become more and more forgotten, but the pure form of memories stay put and feel nice ways like I am the sunlight on top of the rock, let me take your sadness away. And the pinecones just sit there without even rocking from the window’s breeze and are not shaken.
Pinecones, beside the lamp, collecting dust, are growing into trees somewhere. I know. Are waiting for the sadness to go, a friend to come, something to move them elsewhere.
