Assignment for Young Adult Literature
To fulfill the requirements of the assignment, real experiences/objects may have been altered. Not an academic piece.
A beautiful pouch, she claimed. Soft song erupting
from bells adorning soft leather straps as she runs her fingers over the dark
softness.
It is not always beautiful. My heart is in that bag.
My medicine bag.
What do I mean?
Pieces of my soul attached to significant moments
since my coming of age.
I cannot show you, but understand that no one’s soul
is without both darkness and light.
Later I dig my finger into the soft suede to
remember what the pouch contains. A light caress of tanned hide strokes my
nostrils. Pulling the contents out one-by-one, a metallic stench mingles with
that of the satiny leather.
Fingers coax out two small, tinkling brass spheres.
They warm quickly to the touch, soak up energy like shining sponges. Fairy
bells. Amusing trinkets meant to attract Fae magic. Everyone has a wish.
Rolling along my palm, hot and sparkling like shooting stars. Listening to the
chimes peal and feeling, deep down, my wishes sigh in hope. Hope is a personal
magic.
Diving again.
Precariously balanced between two fingers are coins
once dull but scrubbed bare of decades of grime. One found discarded on a
sidewalk, burning hot in the sun. Cool now, but inching towards the temperature
of my palm. The other found abandoned atop a vending machine filled with
fragile plastic toys. Most likely left because of its indeterminate origins. A Nepalese
Rupee, perhaps. Both coins, foreign and domestic, stain my fingers with an
acrid metallic scent. Just the same as any other coin. Objects that have been abandoned,
yet retained their sameness. An item is always worth something to someone.
There is always someone willing to pick up someone else’s refuse. Make it
shine. Give it a purpose. My coins shine.
My ears encounter the warm rasp of paper sliding
against itself. A clichéd slip of paper once excavated from within decimated
cookie crumbs. “One cannot know the best that is in him.” Deeper than that: what
is good one moment may over-ripen in the next. What is good to one may be
blasphemy to another. What is good? This smudged and faded slip of paper is
introspection. A sentence that almost demands one to stop looking, but lends a
feeling of being challenged to look deeper. Rounded corners flicked too many
times by mindless fidgeting, deep in thought. Selfless good or searching for
oneself in another. Smudged fingerprints, trying to clear away old words to
reveal the right answer. Little slip of paper that does not know what is good
any better than me, but lends hope that someone does.
Bunched curl of downy hair wraps around my finger
like a small hand searching for reassurance. Slightly different than the wispy
dark strands I met after nine month of arduous waiting. The month my heart
stopped beating, held frozen by fear, anxiety, despair, and exhaustion. Those
wisps were sloughed away by crib sheets and replaced with charcoal rings. Trimmed
in that fourth month when my heart started beating again. Beating only for the
bright eyes hidden under the tight, grasping curls. That curl is so much of my
heart.
Another dip into the velvety warmth. A gold-plated
ring slides just past my second knuckle. Not warm or cold. Just there. Worn
through in many places, revealing its silver innards. Underside scraped and
jagged from daily wear. A loop, like a calligrapher’s swoop, branches out from
the circle and swings back around the single stone. It leaves an abyss,
softened only by flesh underneath. I tilt my hand. Tiger’s eye winking madly in
the sunlight. Always watching. Gold circlet that was the last shackle to bind
me to another. The sensation lacking, no warmth or chill. Emptiness between one
half and the other. Good and bad and sad. Happiness worn away with the gold.
Brass bells sing from swinging straps, soothing from
the presence of the pouch’s final possession. Dangling and chiming to remind
that friends do not have to be held close to be important to the soul. Peals like
laughter. They say happiness can be found here. You just have to listen.
Finally, I tug free a twisted piece of metal. He
found it, living then as a paperclip, amidst leaves and crumbs in the backseat.
Artistically twisted into an ornate cage meant for a quartz heart. It used to
glow. Neglected, it corroded. Rust stains my fingertips as I handle the cage.
Rubs off like sadness. Just a small amount of contact leaves behind flecks of
decay. Small glimmers of its previous glory peek through, yet remain
overwhelmed by the crumbling orange ugliness snaking about. Twisted and empty
now. The heart is long gone. Slowly chipped away and broken over years of
careless collisions and thoughtless actions. A cage that did not protect.
Merely kept the heart in the perfect place to slowly crumble away.
The pouch is always there. To remind. To create
hope. To caution. It is full, but far from filled. Sometimes the pouch feels
nearly empty. Other times it feels as if it contains the universe. Usually just
a little bag tinkling around in my presence waiting to be heard. Though some
days, my medicine bag sings so loudly I cannot hear my own voice. It is just a
little medicine bag, swinging with the heaviness of wished upon stars. Bearing
the weight of letting go and taking on. The startling weight of loss and regret
cushioned by hope and dreams and love. My medicine bag holds my heart. In it is
both darkness and light.
