Mementos (rev.) by Ralph Weld
“I bought that shoe in Holland, that cross at Notre Dame,” to Amber, I say. My memories gathered in this room, side by side on the shelf, the dust laying over them like a sheet on a corpse. The dust holds my experiences, keeps the outline, its space ready for when I put it back, a selection of hor d’oeuvres to be tasted with cigars and brandy, small tile delights from the white city of Al Djazair, or a pack of matches from a rooftop table in Beirut where I gazed out at a topaz blue sea, its fingers reaching for the sand along the beach.
A fake gold replica of the Tower stood reminding me of a thousand winks from its mother, the sparkles of her sweet kiss at midnight watched by couples in the Tuileries, or a lonely man walking to the metro at Place d’la Concorde. I see the question form like a bubble in a shampoo bottle, rising slowly, she is unsure if she should ask it. She gathers other bubbles around it until she is sure it’s all right.
Amber says “Tell me about the little orange pieces.” Amber in a soft yellow top and gray skirt. Arms crossed under perfect breasts, a sweater over her arm, she wears Ann Taylor and sex so thick its almost love.
“They are named after you” I said. I didn’t know what else to say. Nothing to do with her, this amber from Yemen. A Matryoshka doll from Vilnius sits next to a wooden statue of a warrior from Tbilisi. I pick up the doll and open down to the smallest doll and find it’s filled with dust.