The Toy Box

Each of us has one; each alone may see it, and none is ever touched these days. Its content, though, is real enough. There little blocks of memory are carelessly assembled, rudely left by time to gather dust that filters in to gently cover them-- not quite enough to cause an aging child to close the lid too soon. Mayhap a friend who comes to play will bring along his own to share, though I would never trade with him. My blocks are worn; the edges rounded, and now my hands retrace the tumbling journey of their history, those moments of surprise when blindfolds were removed, and gushing bursts of sorrow, sighs and ecstacy came to me alone. My toy box is a treasure I may never share. Storage is no problem; it is always there. I do not outgrow it, for it comes along with me throughout this life--beyond I do not know. The toys are magical, and never change. And, you know...they are much more than keepsakes; they are just like life. In fact, it streams from them and never mind their age, it does behoove me now to give them better care. So please. I find I rather love the toys within my box. Dust or no, I mean to keep them all. ~