The Cigar Box

I have a cigar box with corners frayed and lid barely holding on. Its contents being small things I've made and objects that I've found. An odd-shaped rock, a marble, a feather, are three of many that lasted well. But the little objects are no better than the stories they could tell. I held these things so precious once when I was a wide-eyed boy. Now in my hand this timeless bunch of memories bring me joy. I lay the treasures cross the table to see what I once had found. I conclude that tomorrow if I'm able I'll walk and search the ground. Somewhere in that old creek bed or on the side of the grassy hill, memories are no longer dead and find them I surely will. Something lying there since time began, hidden so none before could see. But now as if somehow planned, it would be given just to me. The creases corner my eyes today as I've far from weathered well. The box's edges also appear that way but we both have stories still to tell. I am weathered so like this old box and both of us remember when we found the feather and the rock with their stories locked within. Regardless how worn we may seem, the box and I contain the past. Beyond aged exteriors lies the dream, that memories do not die but last.