It was an old pin, bent and rusted, pockmarked with dimples. It was of a dog, with a rabbit in its mouth.

First it came to Europe from Scandinavia, by wooden ship, through hungry, untamed waved. Then to a mistress, young and black-haired, brown-eyed, in a frilly white dress, a banquet of yellow, handpicked flowers in her delicate hands.

Then to her daughter, black hair and curls like the moon, easing her tears as the iron pin followed her over the channel.

Next a lover, forgotten by time and lost by society, who treasured the pin until the end. And it was sold, sent away with the rest of their life’s possessions, into some dusty corner of a shop.

And then another woman, sending the pin as a gift, into the hands of a niece.

And then to the niece’s beloved, dog becoming bent and scuffled through blood and tears and gunshots and trenches. Then to his son.

The rabbit’s foot was snapped off, but the dog still posed regally in its last image. Such an unassuming memorial of lives long gone, so easily forgotten and left to crumble in the dirt, an improper yet reminiscent burial. Rejoining all of its past lives.