Someone put that basket under the dresser. Chose to. Bent. Kicked it maybe. Not the first time, it's spent years there, unthought of; only some time out Of exile chasing a life in the sun. The blond wood is well-stained for all that. It has held sandwiches, beer, a knife, sunscreen and clippers. Diapers. Once, a specimen of toadstool that ate that hole right through the end. But it was strong enough! I remember it full of gloves and a Peterson's Guide, peonies roughly shoved through the upright handles. And her hand pulling the weight, and the shadow it cast on the terrace—like a sundial— a penny from the war lay in the fretwork, I remember that, working its way in or out— And, lifting it from her, the light Weight that made my hand feel light. That's just as clear today as when she came in from the garden late and put that burden down right here.
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