The Old Wooden Box


The old wooden box sat at the end of the wrought iron bed
Filled with the valuables of the hard life that she led.
All the nicks and scratches were visibly seen,
Worn by the years of travel but always kept clean.
Kneeling down I opened the hinged lid,
There was the sweet smell of cedar I remember as a kid.
Nannie's cedar chest was my singing stage
And my canoe fighting against the currents rage.
I was never allowed to take a peek inside
To see the old pictures and embroidery linens that reside.
All the tender emotions and love I felt for that special soul
Came out in a bursting sob that I couldn't control.
I sat there on the floor and took out piece by piece,
Rich in history and full of stories that will never cease.

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