The Hair Clip

The day after what would have been
her 75th birthday,
I inspected the items on the bathroom shelf.
It was there, her black hair clip,
among a few other forgotten things,
unused for years,
splashed with traces of the precarious life
above the sink.
I looked at it hard.
I remembered it in her hair
back in the day when she wore buns;
I remembered using it in my hair
when it was passed on to me
(the only daughter), after;
and I remembered leaving it here,
heart-broken,
the day the tiny spring in the middle broke,
leaving the clasps of the clip limp and dead.
I remembered leaving it here,
knowing it's useless
but wanting to have it close,
to make it make me
feel safe,
to safeguard the past,
unable to part.
From it? From her? From me?
From something that wanted to go.

I looked at it hard
then picked it up gently
from where it clutched the shelf rim,
and dropped it into the recycling bin.