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The Box

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The old, dusty box sits on the shelf
The one with the glass bowl on the left side
And the rope on the right
I have tried to reach it
Stood on the stool and stretched my fingers as far as they would go
They were never long enough
Until today.

Today they brush against the side of the box
Like a whisper
And then it falls
Tumbling through the air
Rattling like a snake

It spills open and I see
For the first time;
I see.

My mother’s pearls roll about the tile floor,
each bead going it’s own direction.

The book my father used to read every night
is facedown,
spine facing upwards,
pages bent,
breaking on the inside.

Slowly, a piece of paper falls down.
My sister, in her graduation gown, fills up the photo.
In my eyes, she was perfect.

Then I look into the box,
wondering what other memories it holds.
But the box is empty now.



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