Mirror with Owl by Sage Casement

I am only drawn to the souls of things.

I wander the aisles and find myself walking towards objects which have lived lives far longer and more enchanted than my own. A sweater losing thread and smelling of mothballs catches my ring on its frayed edge and at once I know her. The body which loved that sweater until she and the memories of the sweater began to decay and in a fit of anger she tosses the sweater into a box marked ‘GOODWILL DONATIONS’ in fat, dripping black sharpie ink. She would take the sweater back out and wrap herself in its scent occasionally, only to throw it back in the sad, crumpled box at 3 am, after drunkenly considering the life she and the sweater have led as of late. And when I recognize the scent I am drawn to her now, and to the life the sweater could make for me. Swiftly passing the porcelain section, their eyes are on me now. A thousand souls screaming through ceramic mouth holes painted shut. I think of the girls who rocked them and said “you’re my baby” until their hair and eyelashes fell out and there was nothing left to wish upon. So they too met the fate of the donation box. Little souls left to rot and be teased by loving patrons of Goodwill, who are only interested in the World Market candy bowls shaped like elephants. I find myself in the aisle smelling of mildew, rust, and a bit of old dried blood from fingers snagged against protruding glass edges. This aisle contains the remnants of many lives; baby photos in ornate metal frames, and cross stitch craft projects that read half finished “Don’t do cocaine in…”, needle still poking through, perhaps left unfinished because the one who gave her this soul went on a bender half way through and realized that warning others not to do coke was making the urge that much stronger in themselves, so she too was tossed in the donation box making her eventual way to the Goodwill shelf to collect dust in her unfinished crevices. Barely tall enough, I peak over the edge of the top shelve above me and in recognizing your soul a cold shiver runs down my spine.

Sage Casement is an enigma.