Box of Memories
In the movie Amélie, the young Parisian heroine discovers a canister of childhood memorabilia hidden by a boy who had lived in her apartment decades earlier. She decides to find the boy, now a man, and covertly leave the box for him to find. Upon discovery, the man is moved to tears and the event causes a chain reaction of good deeds and happy endings. Perhaps this poem will inspire you to do something just as engaging.
When you were four or five,
we made you a treasure chest.
You looked at all your playthings
for the ones you liked the best.
You picked a toy car –
like one you’d have someday.
I did it for making memories;
you did it just for play.
You chose a plastic doggie
that you liked so much –
and other items,
curios, trinkets, and such.
A marble that if you held it to the light
contained the universe.
A basketball card featuring
the San Antonio Spurs.
Into the treasure trove
went hopes, desires, and dreams.
I smiled out loud when you chose
father/son figurines.
I don’t know why you wanted
to include an old battery.
I guess it could symbolize
youth’s everlasting energy.
A tiny book was added –
like one I would read to you at night.
And other novelties went in,
each one selected with delight.
I don’t know how all these items
could possibly fit in.
It was only a little lunch box
made of colorful tin.
But each object you selected
was full of happiness.
We filled the box, we filled the day,
we fulfilled our joyful quest.
We wrapped the box with foil
to be safe from any mouse,
then hid the valuable collection
far beneath the house.
The days went by and
you’d talk about the time capsule.
Then weeks and months went by
and then you entered school.
Did you forget these treasures?
Do you remember anymore?
I’d see it now and then
while doing some plumbing chore.
Almost 20 years have gone by
and I wonder when
we should uncover the trove
and see the treasure again.
Should I peek inside
secretly and on my own,
or leave it for you to discover
when you are all alone?
Would it be as magic
as the graying memories of mine?
Maybe I should leave it there,
locked safely in my mind.
—
Photo: Shutterstock
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