Walking through an antique mall is like spending time with my grandmother again.
Smells that I attributed to her, warmth and dust and perfume. Old wood and dried book pages.
Fake flowers and crystal stemware.
Walking from booth to booth, the air stifled and earthy,
I want to reach out and hold her hand.
I can hear her laugh. I can see her face.
I can turn and say hey Mawmaw,
What’s this really worth?
And with a turn of her heels and a twist of her head, she would respond,
I don’t know girl, let’s see what we can make them do.
