2:47 minutes


The old brass handle
worn smooth
Clicks, and the door
creaks inward.

A tinkling bell
announces my presence
to ancient articles
held hostage.

A musty odor permeates
and reminds
of days gone by.

Who cut with this knife?
Who drank from this cup?
Were they precious once?
What a tale to tell.

But loyally silent
they shall remain.
What timeless treasures
lie buried,
tangled, mingled with
unwanted junk.

Gazing round
amidst the dusty clutter,
overwhelms all senses.

Inside my pocket
I clutch tightly
grandmother’s wedding ring.

I feel shiny smoothness
polished by working years.
Grandma, do I touch you now
fiddling with this valued possession?

Shall this chill I sell
as I remember reverently?
Could the few dollars fetched
possibly replace
all the memories?

Have I come to sell
or to buy memories?

The bell tinkles laughlingly
as I carefully close the door.
A treasure found?
Clutched tightly still,
is grandma’s memory.

Such a shrewd purchase.
An ivory ring box
protects and preserves
more than just a memory.
Therein lies
a legacy of love.

14 November 1992