The ornaments were the only thing she rescued from the detritus. Propped high above the flotsam and jetsam, they spoke to her – whispering that they needed to be saved.
Once sparkling sapphire blue, each bauble now individually scarred, marked by the cardboard packaging in which they have been propped for countless seasons. The round surfaces are faded unevenly like memories of past holidays – joy melting into melancholy.
She had a momentary urge to crush these brittle forms, to feel and hear them shatter, to behold the interior of each sphere and let them go.
But the violent feeling subsided and now they are hers, protected in musty cardboard for time.