A Flower Hair Clip

I had a memory today. A hair clip. I held it in my hand today squeezing the hard wood painted flower. I never wore the clip. Though it is beautiful, it is too big for my slippery hair. I love it though. Mostly for its memory and less for its looks.

I had a memory today. A scarf. I held it in my hand today squeezing the softness and smelling the sweetness. I never wore the scarf. Though it is beautiful,it is too square to wear around my neck. I love it though. Mostly for its memory and less for its looks.

I had a memory today. A story. I held it in my hand today squeezing it to remind me of the real words that are sprinkled on the blue paper. I wrote the story. It was the first story I remember thinking, "this is beautiful." I wear that story. I love it. Mostly for its memory and less for its looks.

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Monday Morning Message

STAFF MEETING ON TUESDAY: Bring in a sentimental item. 

I wonder. Hmmmm. Writing prompt maybe? What on earth am I going to take with me of sentimental value? Someone suggests my wedding ring. I already have it. No cause for concern that I might forget something. But, that seems too easy.

Monday Evening

"Ugh, I have to find something for my staff meeting that is sentimental," I tell my husband. 

He is engrossed in his own work and says something like, "That's nice."

Sigh. 

I go to the basement. Suddenly it hits me. I recently put all of our extra linens in an old entertainment center we re-purposed in our laundry room. Perfect, I know I just put my grandmother's old scarves in there. The scarves she would wear on her head while battling cancer. They still smell like her.

Wait, I think...didn't I write a story in college about her death? I look in my desk drawer...WHALAH! It appears as though it was meant to be read. 

I sit and read the story I drafted back in college while doing a writing exercise of sorts. Mist fills my eyes. As I read I am reminded of a flower hair clip that I reference in the story. I was holding it in the gift shop when my mother came to get me and tell me my grandmother had died.

Huh? I wonder where that hair clip is? I go on a search yet again. I know I have it but have no idea where it could be. I open my trunk of kept things. Moving two teddy bears, some newspaper clippings there is a small basket with a frog lock on the front. I easily open the basket, the frog lock useless. There it is. Like someone took me to it; the clip is in my hand, I squeeze it, the leaves of the wooden flower cut into my skin a bit. This is my sentimental item that holds a story inside its petals.