Forgetting as freshwater pearl necklace

by nat raum

somewhere, these cultured chalkwhite orbs were strung 

together and clasped on a cushion of midnight

blue velvet for Grandpa Andy to buy. the museum

was in the District and prismic pinpricks shot through the gift

shop as we perused strings of pearls, cementing

memories in the swipe of a credit card. he taught 

me the sort of sentimental that stored recollections 

in the things we slip through curious fingertips, agents

for memory or relics of an adventure in amberlight, in scale

models of the monuments and sculptures we saw scattered

along the glossy white bookshelves. and years later,

also in the District, he’d fall on his head, days like

the museum long gone on impact, but i’d still see light

rainbows clearly each time i lay pearls here to my collarbone.