The Box of Memories-A Poem
The Box of Memories
I open up the shoebox,
I found it in my loft,
Hidden in a corner,
Rain damaged, corners soft,
Blackened with mildew,
And speckled with dust,
I rattled it gently
Then opened it up.
Inside there were letters,
And photos, black and
White, some sepia, aged
With time and neglect,
I put them away out of respect.
But they sat in my study a while,
And I remembered the photos,
And one of a man with a smile
In uniform, so young. Was he adored
By some pretty young girl in the forties?
Or the son of a proud mother who held
This photo close to her heart each night
As bombs fell on our town and he
Was miles away, fighting an enemy
But she prayed for her boy to return,
And love his girl in his turn.
I open the box again and take
The ribbon from the sheaves
Of thinning paper, the cursive
writing pretty, a girl’s hand.
I read the first of many letters
And understand.
The ribbon retied.
The box resealed
In her delicate hand
The truth revealed.
I am no more than
A voyeur this time
And I return their box of memories
To its dusty confines.