And the story goes like this . . .
I walk up the dusty, dark staircase that had been my favourite place,
playing with my dolls, make believe, dreaming of meeting a prince;
Wanting to grow up, but that was many years ago, many heartbreaks ago,
my reason today, Grandma has left this world and all in the attic is mine.
The door has not been opened in years, it creaks and groans as I push,
I stand in the doorway, hesitating, finding the courage to enter the dampness;
The sun filters in through a small window, dust drifts and cobwebs lace the corners,
the atmosphere still and silent, like death, echoing of the past as I look about.
No one else wants any of this, they call it junk, but I do, I know its treasures,
passing by an old lamp, a stroller, a rocking chair, a chest of drawers and bed;
Old portraits of ancestors long forgotten, dusty old things, treasures from the past,
a peacefulness comes over me but I am searching for something special.
And there it is pushed into a corner, an antique chest, long forgotten,
it holds the vintage clothing and jewelry, and writings of the child that was me;
Things I had treasured as a girl, playing dress up, pretending, making up stories,
kneeling beside it, my hand touches the ornate surface brushing away dust.
Slowly, I open the lid, peeking inside, everything is there as I had left it,,
my eyes fill with tears, memories swirling in my head of that lonely little girl;
Dressed up in Grandma's old clothes, writing stories on the attic room floor,
stories that will become poems for I have found my lost treasure chest.
July 21, 2013
For the contest, Treasure Chest, Anthony Slausen