Devourer

In my mind it has a name: Devourer. Maudlin in a way I am otherwise not, and for good cause. This is where dreams and intent go to linger. Not to die or be forgotten, never either, but merely stored beyond easy sight and easier recollection. It's a chest, a twelve by six rectangle of century old cherry wood and black iron fittings. Standing before it is to subject myself to the dispiritingly familiar scent of the polish my grandmother favored. I open it and stare long into the orderly cutter of memories. My wedding band clatters into the mix.