Box In a Closet

There’s an old box in a closet somewhere, up on a shelf, maybe down in a corner. It rarely sees the light; perhaps a few moments every now and again when it creeps in at just the right angle.

I can’t remember the last time I opened mine. Less and less these days, except to gently lift the lid and cautiously but somewhat carelessly drop in a small trinket. Some are merely scraps of paper, bits of old wristbands; there’s a pen from a dive school in a place on the other side of the world I’ve never been to. Of course, a stack of photos from back when photos could still be stacked. Cards from forgotten holidays and birthdays with notes rarely read.

A silent reminder of all the lives gone by, all the choices and ideas that came before. You’ll see it and smile a small wry smile; your eyes will sparkle a touch as the wrinkles on each side gather into the piercing stare of a moment that’s now a memory.

Then suddenly, a dog comes running down the hall, and you’ll slip from an old dream to a more modern one. The clacking nails bring you back, and…

“Hey! where are those… Never mind, found ’em!”

The door shuts, and an old box sits there, up on a shelf, maybe down in a corner.