The Box that Brought the Past
I opened up the wooden Box
Shaped like a treasure chest today.
I don't know what made me think of it;
I have not thought of it in many months.
Nor looked inside for longer.
The little Time Capsule, as it must be called,
Although I do not think of it as such,
Has purple stripes, painted by
The uncertain fingers of a child,
Since grown steadier.
I took out the contents of the Box,
Each object within, a piece of the People
Who would grow to be me.
Here, the Scapular, so faded that
You would never see that it once had writing.
Or there, the Silver Dollar
Given to me by my Uncle when I was one.
My Past unfurled itself like a cloth,
Stretching out before me, although it has
Always been behind me.
The Ticket to a concert, autographed by favorite singers;
The wrist band from my latest Emergency Room visit;
The Horse Pin, long since broken;
The Nail file that I won, but never used;
The old Arrow head, probably fake.
Why keep the Past in a Box?
Why contain it? I could take the Memories
And put them all about the house,
So I could always see my Past
On the walls, there are many pictures.
Pictures of shared experiences,
So we can all look up and smile
At ourselves, surrounded by Family,
The way it was Before the ending of the Then
And the start of Now.
But these are My memories.
Others look, but have not seen
The past that these trinkets bring
Close enough to touch, but never enter.
I look again at the Box.
Plain enough to look at, with
False bronze catch and hinges,
Clumsy, purple stripes,
And rough, light wood.
But it is mine.
So I place again the objects of Before
Into the Box, each in it's place,
And put the Box back on my dresser.
So that another day I might open it,
See all the useless junk inside,
By: Klenda Valtapaz
HT: from the horses mouth.