NaPoWriMo (Day 29): The bracelet

 
For the month of April, I’m writing a poem a day from prompts on https://www.napowrimo.net. You can click on the headlines (Day One, etc) to view/add comments. There’s also a list of participants’ sites below the site header.

29

And here’s our prompt (optional, as always). In certain versions of the classic fairytale Sleeping Beauty, various fairies or witches are invited to a princess’s christening, and bring her gifts. One fairy/witch, however, is not invited, and in revenge for the insult, lays a curse on the princess. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem in which you muse on the gifts you received at birth — whether they are actual presents, like a teddy bear, or talents – like a good singing voice – or circumstances – like a kind older brother, as well as a “curse” you’ve lived with (your grandmother’s insistence on giving you a new and completely creepy porcelain doll for every birthday, a bad singing voice, etc.). I hope you find this to be an inspiring avenue for poetic and self-exploration.

The bracelet

 
There was a comet, they said,
crossing the sky on high with colourful
tail feathers, soaring and then disappearing
completely, scattered wide in the pitch.
 
I have no recollection, being newly born.
I still have a bracelet, so tiny I could never
imagine wearing it again. It’s silver and faded,
but it fitted snug on my arm at my christening.
 
Now it’s doll-size. The engraving is hard
to read, but it’s still visible. Minute ridges of
a pattern, weaving its way around the band.
It’s a small, treasured thing. It’s come with me
 
through my entire life, my silent companion,
living through all the things that make a person.
I lost it recently in a house move. I hunted all over
for this small remembrance of my childhood.
 
Just a bracelet, but meaning so much more.
A gift from family, a raw bond, a welcoming
into the world, a memory. I wanted to call out,
but never would there come an answer.
 
If only it could speak. But it is only metal.
Built to last an age.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, April 29, 2022