She strips the nostalgia from it.
The sentimentality has to go, too,
and the melodrama.

What’s left is a
small
polished
jar

that might hold mixed drinks
or ashes.

What’s left is a
wingless bird in a cage
who sings songs so earnest

that the neighbours die.
But she is happy
and that’s what
matters.

The story has been told,
and that’s what
matters.