Penny Harter Vintage Fox Furs I cannot see their faces anymore when I revisit my great-aunts’ parlor. I only hear the echoes of the player piano, or watch my great-aunt’s back bend over the keyboard as she plays the familiar carols we are singing together in the candle-lit room. But I see two fox furs, whole little foxes, each snout falling down one of their shoulders, delicate paws and bushy tails dangling over the other; ancient foxes hiding maiden breasts; tiny foxes whose red-tipped fur once wrapped fox flesh, warm blood. I wanted to touch each fox, stroke its bristling pelt, yet knew they were dead things, fox remnants hanging around the neck of one great-aunt or other—twin dead kits that maybe dreamed fox dreams while sleeping blind on the hall mahogany coat-stand. I don’t know why it’s foxes today, more vivid than the fading memories of loved ones who have moved into that old hotel I visited last night— its dream corridors papered with sprigs of lilac from my great-aunts’ parlor, its ample grounds a haven for the lost.

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