Fripperie

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Aline kept the box from her green alarm clock.  She filled it with loose glass beads – copper seeds, crystal tubes, the remnants of a strand of chunky ruby-red faceted ovals – all saved for the purposes of an unknown day.  On top of these shiny, vagrant beads, she nestled blossoms sewn from white silk ribbon and yellow french knots, curling their soft petals against the rigid cardboard sides.  Distracted by other, more pressing fancies, Aline could let them wait.  Time, heat and moisture shaped their drooping tendrils into the perfect square of the little sarcophagus, silently recording each passing day of inattention.  I don’t know when Aline last held the ribbon flowers in her own hands, rekindling their tender memory – but it was a long, long time ago.

This is how I found them.  As soon as I lifted them from the box, the silk rustled back to life, and spread itself into the light, giving itself air, blooming once again.

 

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