Box of Bones

I carry a small box of bones in my car, cramped and crumbled, stowed in my glove compartment, insulated by maps and documents, quieting its rattling. The decaying bits of calcium and marrow have been handed down to me through generations, brought over from Russia on a boat, treasured, sheltered, delivered to me from an estate. I don't know who or what the bones are, but they travel with me, always present, whispering to me, guiding, haunting.

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