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A Hidden Face
I walk hesitantly down the rusty red carpet stairs,
into the cold, drafty concrete hall.
I turn left
into a stuffy, steamy hot room
with four large, clear plastic boxes
stacked high to the ceiling.
I do not dare try to get mine,
the second highest.
I ask my father to get it down.
He struggles and fumbles under the box,
full of abstract kindergarten paintings
and vaguely detailed fourth grade poems.
The boxes tumble to the ground.
I take the plastic lid off,
Its clear face revealing the jumbled memories beneath it,
And my nose full of the old, hidden memories
and the solid underground smell of my basement.
I giggle at my old handwriting,
remembering when I thought it was perfect.
The ridged dips and curves of the graphite on sleek white paper
Give me chills, my body reacting to past memories.
I hardly ever get a chance to open this box.
But when I do,
My mind is immediately flooded of small, delicate moments,
the kind that blossom and bulge in the back of your mind.
The clear face is now closed,
Its memories sealed and put back into hiding.
And now it waits
For someone else to find its memories.
But what intrigues me now,
is the distant memories that will also be put in this box.
When its clear face will be revealed once more,
And its mind will burst
Full of abstract kindergarten paintings
And vaguely detailed fourth-grade poems
And it will let the world know
Of its hidden memories