Old wooden chest, with a dark brown varnish
sitting in the corner of the dusty attic.
Throbbing, as if it has stories just waiting to explode
Little feet scury and little hands slip,
trying to unlock the secrets of the old wooden chest.
Pulling out photos, letters and a medal of courage.
The picture of our wedding, tears swelling in the corner of my eyes.
She holds the pictures, tiny finger prints are left on the glass.
The picture of him and his uniform; a hero to his granddaughter.
Next comes the package, of old crumpled letters.
The ink smudged the edges ripped, time has only made them better.
The words float threw my mind; a hero to his wife.
The cold sting of the metal hits my hand, I know exactly what it is.
Sitting on my lap I tell her the tales of his journey and his fight to stay alive.
The smile breaks the tears; a hero to his country.
I place the trinkets back into the old wooden chest,
It was hard when he never did come back.
Now the memories are safely locked away. . .
for another time to remeber.
