The Gift

I had a couple of intricately beaded necklaces.
One of them was a gift, years ago, from my eldest child.
When I looked at what I had in the drawer, I couldn't remember
which one was bought by me, and which was a gift from another.

I gave one to the giver, who felt hurt I didn't remember,
more than that I was returning the gift. The mind's like that:
forgets the details, though archives are kept by the heart.
It's only one of many faults for which I must atone. 

One was a gift, years ago, from my eldest child.
Giving something back, the hurt is that I didn't remember. 
One was bought by me, one was a gift from the other.
That the gift was returned, her mind found unfathomable.

I mailed it back to her, and she was hurt I didn't remember. I might
have forgotten details, but isn't what the heart keeps what matters?
I returned the gift, but not out of spite. My mind isn't that kind of stupid.
And yet it's only one of many things for which I must atone.

I may have returned the gift, but I know it wasn't out of spite.
When I looked at what I had in my drawer, I only saw too much.
Perhaps it's only one of many faults for which I must atone.
Once, I ran my hands over two intricately beaded necklaces.