This broken broach was found with other treasured items after my mother's passing. It kindled questions for me. Who wore it? Where? What is its special meaning that caused her to save it even though it was broken? Just like that fallen tree in the deserted forest, are the memories gone, because nobody is left who knew them? Or, are they sealed within, to last as long as the broach exists? The romantic in me hopes that the later is the answer.