I opened the pallid box

That my mother had saved,

It was filled with cards,

Trinkets and Santa Claus socks.

There were newspaper clippings

And an assortment of tattered letters.



All the amnesiac memories

That had been bound in time,

Suddenly began to flood my mind

As I reread the yellowed thoughts of ancient love

Captured on paper so old it has crumbled

And the letters can never be read again.



Yet the vision still lives while the body has decayed-

A life summed up in 21 years and a few odd days.



There were the other letters, too,

From dear old friends.

Those dear old friends live on

And were found again,

Thanks to their energy

Scourging the wires.



But the authors of some letters are, alas, amiss.

To this day I still think about them-wondering, wondering.



And a watershed's floodgates open

Upon a wilted, withered face.

10/21/2009

Posted on 10/21/2009
Copyright © 2026 Clara Mae Gregory