The Trunk
This is short bit of prose I wrote a few years ago about a trunk that sits at the end of our dresser with a doll house on it. This is a doll house that our daughter, Savannah, received as a Christmas present long ago. The trunk is sort of like a "basement" for that house which contains our family photos. (The instrumental song on this page is entitled "The View from Kenmar Lane" by Bob Bennett from his album"Non-Fiction.")
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In the back room at the end of the dresser
is an old trunk . . . at least it looks old,
with a lifetime of memories inside.
On top of that trunk sits a house for little people
with furniture, fireplaces and even a plastic cat or two
The old trunk that the house sits upon is like the basement holding the memories
and pictures of lives lived, even some pictures of people
I never knew. What stories they must have had.
Once in a while, I, like some giant
venture forth to that place where the house sits
and carefully lift it from it's foundation and
place it elsewhere, gently, so as not to upset the family inside.
Father reading his plastic newspaper and mother,
washing the plastic dishes
I peer down to where the house stood,
release the latches and open up that trunk,
that basement and inhale the smell of 'old.'
I find a comfortable place, alone
where I can sit cross-legged on the floor.
A place where I can grab memories by the hand full
from that cherished cellar and sift through them
one-by-one and remember . . . and smile . . . perhaps shed a tear or two . . . and
sometimes even long for those times gone by,
but always thankful for a life spent playing, spinning and dancing
in the showers of grace and the sweet, earthy smell of honeysuckle and rain . . .
the scent of mercy and of a great and gracious legacy.
The pictures, the pictures, the places I've been, the things
done and seen. I'm amazed, I'm amazed and silent.
I just let the pictures speak. They say it all better anyway.
Night begins to fall. It's getting harder to see.
Life is that way too.
These glossy memories surrounding me
The pictures of my life, my loved ones gone on
and yet to go. Knowing that the greater part of my life
lies before and not behind me.
I return the pictures to the "basement', and rise, stiff-legged
to replace the little house with the plastic cats on top of that trunk
Perhaps someday, I'll revisit that old basement and bring someone with me
to share the memories of a life lived. A life that I hope - - - mattered.
Mark W. Smith, 2011
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In the back room at the end of the dresser
is an old trunk . . . at least it looks old,
with a lifetime of memories inside.
On top of that trunk sits a house for little people
with furniture, fireplaces and even a plastic cat or two
The old trunk that the house sits upon is like the basement holding the memories
and pictures of lives lived, even some pictures of people
I never knew. What stories they must have had.
Once in a while, I, like some giant
venture forth to that place where the house sits
and carefully lift it from it's foundation and
place it elsewhere, gently, so as not to upset the family inside.
Father reading his plastic newspaper and mother,
washing the plastic dishes
I peer down to where the house stood,
release the latches and open up that trunk,
that basement and inhale the smell of 'old.'
I find a comfortable place, alone
where I can sit cross-legged on the floor.
A place where I can grab memories by the hand full
from that cherished cellar and sift through them
one-by-one and remember . . . and smile . . . perhaps shed a tear or two . . . and
sometimes even long for those times gone by,
but always thankful for a life spent playing, spinning and dancing
in the showers of grace and the sweet, earthy smell of honeysuckle and rain . . .
the scent of mercy and of a great and gracious legacy.
The pictures, the pictures, the places I've been, the things
done and seen. I'm amazed, I'm amazed and silent.
I just let the pictures speak. They say it all better anyway.
Night begins to fall. It's getting harder to see.
Life is that way too.
These glossy memories surrounding me
The pictures of my life, my loved ones gone on
and yet to go. Knowing that the greater part of my life
lies before and not behind me.
I return the pictures to the "basement', and rise, stiff-legged
to replace the little house with the plastic cats on top of that trunk
Perhaps someday, I'll revisit that old basement and bring someone with me
to share the memories of a life lived. A life that I hope - - - mattered.
Mark W. Smith, 2011