By Jess Jordan
Beside the bed draped in a grey comforter and thick blankets, is a dark maple nightstand my grandfather built in the 60s, home to a rusted oil lamp my father restored and my old round metal glasses missing a lens. Across the room, a floral yellow-cushioned rocking chair holds the memory of my fragile grandmother swaying and smiling. Against the eggshell cinderblock wall of my basement bedroom, the nightstand is also the keeper of treasures: a Moleskine notebook, a sand-colored tile I use as a coaster, an old shiny golden coin, and a black ballpoint pen. Below the hazy yellow glow of bulbs strung across the ceiling on a thin rope, a small glass frame rests upon the maple, inside this frame an old torn photograph of a husband and wife, my grandparents whom I never had a chance to meet, in a slick tuxedo and a white gown, laughing. Originally found in a brown leather scrapbook in a dusty old attic, now their memory stays close by in the safety of the frame.
Jess Jordan lives in St. Marys, Pennsylvania. She is currently a senior interdisciplinary arts major focusing on writing and digital art. She enjoys taking a variety of writing and art courses to expand her knowledge and try out new things. Her poetry and art has appeared in previous editions of Baily’s Beads, and she has served as design director for the magazine’s last two issues. Destruction, The End, Prison, A Series of Haiku, Shattered