We have a bearskin in our living room
it meets me every day with open mouth.
I don’t know where or why it met its doom
my father bought it once and brought it south
he know it was a crime, that it’s been poached,
But it carries with it stories of another time,
a token of adventures in a wayless north,
reminding me, that my father once was young.
That nothing can be perfect; even honest men
have secrets without need to make amends.
Today Sara Connor hosts at dVerse and wants us to write about mementos.