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.
Copyright © Jack Clark | Year Posted 2016
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