A Mask Unworn

A tiny mask sits on the mantlepiece. It is a silent scar on the home, too intimate to acknowledge but impossible to ignore. A mask outgrown is one thing, but the solemnity with which it is treated speaks to a grimmer fate. A mask unworn is another thing entirely.

A tiny mask sits on the mantlepiece. It is the bared soul of the family, sacred to behold but never to be touched lest the dust of memory rub off. A mask outgrown is one thing, but the reverence with which it is treated speaks to a more significant fate. A mask unworn is another thing entirely.

A tiny mask sits on the mantlepiece. It is a heartbeat, a breath, a wail silenced before it can begin. It is all that might have been, all that is never to be, all that is left. A mask outgrown is one thing, a memory of a childhood now passed, but the stillness that surrounds it speaks to something more final. A mask unworn is another thing entirely.