TREASURE BOX
Although centuries old,
the wooden box
still protects her treasures –
tin types,
letters,
small, ink-blue, flip-top notebooks
used as journals –
she recorded events of each day
religiously,
some as poems,
some as articles written for
small town rags –
each held its own silent story,
released only
by
her touch.
The box that lived beside her bed throughout my youth,
Now sleeps beneath a blanket of dust on closet shelf -
A visage awaking insatiable longing daily.
Pieces of her life’s journey await release.
I fear the memories incomplete.
I yearn to see her trembling hands,
wrapped in translucent skin,
caress each treasure,
one by one.
I ache to hear
her gentle voice
recount
each story
once again.
I’d listen better…
Youth no longer
an excuse
for
poor memory.
©Bridget Nutting, 2010
Several years ago when my mother died, I brought my great-grandmother's treasured box home with me. I started the following story poem hoping someday it might be put to music. I decided to finish it today.
Several years ago when my mother died, I brought my great-grandmother's treasured box home with me. I started the following story poem hoping someday it might be put to music. I decided to finish it today.
My great grandparents' wedding picture - Dennis and Jessie Daniel, December 31, 1900.
THE MEMORY BOX
Grandma keeps her memories in a box beside her bed.
She uses them to trigger all the stories inside her head.
Sadly all the photos and stories have begun to fade.
Still she holds them as she tells of all the travels she has made.
The first one is a picture of a pretty little girl,
In laced-up boots, a petticoat, and long golden curls.
She was born in Illinois soon after the Civil War.
Her father was a lawyer; he’d been married once before.
Her Mama was a “looker” and came from a large family –
She raised her kids, taught grammar school, and wrote books of poetry.
They left their farm to homestead in Montana – way out west.
Although the winters were bitter cold, Montana was the best.
They sold the “stead” and moved to town to run the General Store.
Then Grandma tired; she closed the box; she could share anymore.
Grandma keeps her memories in a box beside her bed.
She uses them to trigger all the stories inside her head.
Sadly all the photos and the stories have begun to fade.
Still she holds them as she tells of all the travels she has made.
The next one is a picture of a young man and his wife.
She smiles as she remembers the main man in her life.
Seventy years of blissful marriage before God carried him home.
He’s been gone for years now – Grandma feels so all alone.
She remembers when she first saw him – he was tall with hair so red.
She was setting the type for the paper, before putting the news to bed.
He was a train engineer…his safe whistle was long, short, long…
One day as she waited anxiously, praying he would always be strong,
Her worst fears were realized when she was informed of the terrible wreck.
It was months before he could walk again – they were thankful he hadn’t broken his neck.
He never worked the train again – he carried mail to the store.
Then Grandma closed the Memory Box. She couldn’t share anymore.
The other day I opened up the box and looked inside.
I saw a picture of Grandma’s house and then I sat and cried.
Grandma’s been gone for years now – I still miss her every day.
I miss the stories that she told now that she’s gone away.
I held each picture close to me; I tried hard to recall
The stories of each photograph, but I don’t know some at all.
I long to sit with Grandma as she tells stories of her life;
I miss the ones of Papa – the hard knocks and the strife.
I learned so many lessons; I hope she knows I cared.
I closed the box wishing for more stories to be shared.
The box still cradles pictures, but Grandma’s gone away.
I wish that I could sit with her hearing stories every day.
Some pictures hold the secrets that I didn’t take time to hear.
I wish that I had known then that these pictures were so dear.
Grandma kept her memories in the box beside her bed.
She’d hold them to trigger all the stories inside her head.
Sadly all the photos and the stories began to fade.
I hold them now hoping to recall travels that she made.
©Bridget Nutting, 2010
