New Things Old

There was the story you kept in a box
The one you pickled in a jar
And the one you folded under the sheets
Covered and clean, neat and nutty
On tatami woven floors.
I recognized it when it fell out and followed it home. 
Followed it home like you followed Grandpa at twenty-three
To a home you built together with wishes and screens
To the country seat, far from Tokyo
Where you visited your stepmother’s farm as a child
And tended kittens and sheep
The place you haven’t been since. 
But we have. 
When you tell us—story us—
And we go
To those old and open waters 
Where men still throw wooden tokens to bid on fish
To the hush and chime of grassy, graveyard stones
Where our ancestors sit, beckon, and laugh
To the house, now bones, where you grew younger and younger
As words veined their way through your hands
Making old things new
And new things old.

Moe Graviet is a graduate student from Emmett, Idaho, studying religion and literature at Yale Divinity School.