To rub against a shoebox filled

with photos and phone numbers.

To see light shower inside

through an open closet door

To be, for years, unnoticed

in darkness where I camouflage.

To no longer hear laughter

as fingers grasp my handle.

To be unearthed from trophies

and three-years-worth of backpacks.

To be filled with clothes and shampoos

and roller-coastered to a car’s trunk.

To bounce and soar for hours

in a symphony of silence.

To be unpacked in the house

at which I must have started.

To see cardboard box towers

weave into a labyrinth.

To glimpse barefoot girls and

a sleeping newborn dressed in pink.

A graying man hangs an old

sailor’s hat on the coat rack.

To be replaced in the closet

I almost remember.

To be slowly surrounded

by new trophies and backpacks.

To await the shoebox’s

return to the space at my side,

filled with new friends’ photographs

and new memories to laugh.