The Trunk

The attic trunk, dirty, and oh so old Had survived the many years untold Sitting there midst the quiet dust The hasp and hinges brown with rust In the young girls’ mind she was compelled To see what it was the old trunk held Her desire to glimpse into the past Was met with screeching protests from the hasp Slowly, as it opened wide, The young girl could now see inside. There before her, in jumbled disarray Was her family’s history dossier First her eyes, and then her hand Touched that history’s wonderland: A wedding dress; An old photograph; Were of themselves an epitaph Of lives that lived so long ago Placed in this trunk for her to know That there were those preceding her Whose life stories these things transfer To her eyes, and mind and hand To help the young girl understand That life goes on … what she thought “new” Were really old and there in her view. Within the yellowed wedding dress Had been a woman of marriage blessed No doubt joyous on her wedding day But … who it was, who can say? As the young girl looked into the depth Where quiet history there had slept She learned of dates and names and more The pieces of her own folklore. She found some letters, tied in blue; Military medals she found there too; And a pillowcase, in pink crochet: But, whose head had upon it lay? Her thoughts envisioned hair of gold And other attributes her mind cajoled: Were eyes of brown … or were they blue? Or perhaps of totally different hue? A photograph revealed a faded face The image seemed so out of place The person she did not recognize And felt a need to apologize For these persons had been alive But all that’s left was this archive Within this old and dusty trunk Their lives condensed and … to this shrunk. Tears appeared on her young cheeks As she gazed down at the old antiques There before her was the legacy Left by them for posterity. For a time she spent in ponder Her thoughts of them grew fonder The lives they lived did she perceive Until at last, ‘twas time to leave By her hand the Trunk lid closed, So grateful, for it had exposed: A glimpse of her ancestral life The Unknowns living of joys and strife. Her thoughts were lost in fantasy Of who they were … who could they be When years before in reality Had left these things for her to see … ‘Twas but me, on a lazy afternoon, When I had thought it opportune To preserve for generations hence Into our lives afford a glimpse And that was a hundred years ago (Well, maybe not, but it feels so), For our ancestors might like to see That at one time – there was you … and me.