The Paisley Print Box

A few days after the funeral,

I search the bedroom closet,

cleaning, cleaning, cleaning!

Getting rid of things,

seemingly unimportant things;

old shirts, stained ties & trousers,

worn socks & shoes,

things that prolong pain,

things that rekindle memories

and awaken nostalgia.

In that frenzy to erase,

I reach into a dark corner &

pull out a worn paisley print box.

Compelled by its weight,

I sit on the floor & open it, slow,

almost afraid to know its content.

It is filled with faded, yellowish

back & whites,

snapshots that seem to defiantly

freeze times past.

I look upon fetching smiles & eyes

that reflect passing moments

of love & happiness.

I also catch the subtle looks of

frustrations & disappointments,

hopes and dreams suspended on paper.

I wipe my tears from the

frazzled-edged black & whites

that unpretentiously frame

time-stained, wrinkled remembrances,

forgotten moments of long ago,

moments that undeniably construe

the sometimes enigmatic self

I am today.

With tenderness I close the box &

push it back into the dark, secluded corner,

where it belongs.

I continue cleaning, even though

my pace is slower,

more reflective,

perhaps it’s the weight of

the worn paisley print box.