THE TRUNK

The Trunk

Unbuttoned buttons

Falling out of an old trunk

Stuffed with mildewed lace

And blue ribbons barely

Holding together ancient love letters

Browned with age and turning to dust

At a touch

There, a faded photograph lies

'Neath cobwebby frames and old air

Remnants of a life long dead

A love still living in a distant past

I hear the sweetness of a tiny bit of violin

Muffled girlish laughter

Shoes with elaborate bows dancing dainty steps

As the face in the photograph looks down

From his towering height into shining blue eyes

A pocket watch with exquisite chain of gold

A lock of auburn hair inside a locket

A pressed flower so old, I cannot tell what it had been

A book of Keats, it's sanctuary

And a prayer book with a scribbled prayer in spidery hand

"Please, please, please, dear Lord

Let this be the night he asks me!"

Underneath a wedding veil, a Bible with crumbling cover

Inside, the marriage recorded for all the world to see

Oh, happy, happy day! She has written in bold letters

And I feel the joy and smile at her rejoicing

In a brocaded box, a baby's tooth, a curl tied with thread

A christening dress, what used to be a doll

With reverent hands I pull the items towards me

Breathe in the musty memories they eminate

And gently place them back inside the trunk

In the corner, stuck inside a seam, I see a picture

Creased and faded almost into non existence

The woman's blue eyes, still shining, still full of love

Sitting in a rocking chair, holding a doll

As though it was her sole salvation

No gown of yellow adorned her frame

And I could not hear the violin's tender trill

But I knew that it was her

And for a moment, it flashed into my mind

That she could see me seeing her

See me holding the remnants of her life

Celebrating her little victories

And great, great losses

Now silently announced by the ugly black dress

And by an unspeakable sorrow on a yet young face

"I'm so sorry." I whisper

And close the trunk in slow retreat

Passing an ancient mirror standing like a portal

To another world in that dusty, forgotten attic

I catch a glimpse of my own face surrounded by untidy curls

With similar eyes and inherited sadnesses

It is her face there staring back at me

"It is our face." I think and touch my rounded belly

With a new mother's hands

Perhaps, it'll be her face, too. And I'll bring her here

To see where she came from, how strong the genes imparted

How thick the blood, how deep the love that survives the sorrow

Down through the ages

And imprinted on the cherished things she touched

Almost disintegrated now

But living still

Inside that dusty trunk.

©by Voo

May 14, 07

3 p.m.