Gold Seashell

My Grandfather was
the very best and

I

never knew that his
house had a smell
until today.

The house was the
most consistent place

my life ever got to
have. A place so

familiar that the
degree of its
memorization was
only realized

when one by one
objects that hadn’t
moved since 1967

began to shift.

I had sat in that
living room, with his
unfinished puzzle

watching the crushed
velvet gold seashell
shaped chairs.

60s vintage. My Grandma
chose the fabric when my
Dad was 3.

“I love those chairs.”
I had said slowly.
“But there is no way
on Earth I can get them

to Las Vegas. Too bad.”

A friend of my Aunts
was kind enough
to drive them

to Phoenix. I was able
to go pick them up and
in a tiny box, wrapped up

tight.. was the goblet
of sand and seashells
that my Grandfather kept
in the bathroom
that I

would stare at
as a child
as a teenager
as an adult

and vow
to someday

collect seashells
and goblets and
sand.

The older I get
the more that

everything that
represented
what home meant

to me
changes.

We drove those chairs
all across the desert.

I unwrapped them today.

I smelled that house.
Called my sister.

She understood.

Sometimes
you never know

what was there.

Sometimes
you get

lucky

later

on.

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