Shoe Boxes

I blow the dust of an old

cardboard shoe box. The ink

on the half-torn duck tape faded,

not that I need to be reminded

what is inside of it. Inside this

shoe box is a treasure trove

of black and white Polaroids,

old family photos, unopened

letters, and discolored postcards.

One by one, I pick up random

photos. When they’re in my hand,

for just a moment, I am no longer

sitting on the creaking floor

of my attic. For just a moment,

I am standing beside a campfire,

with my family, telling stories,

and roasting marshmallows,

somewhere in a forgotten forest.

For just a moment, I am at the park,

celebrating my 6th birthday,

with some friends from class.

I don’t feel lost when I dig through

buried memories; memories

I tossed in a old, dusty shoebox.

Inside every photo is a young

boy needing to be seen by

someone who has grown up

with the same pair of eyes –

someone who will understand

his story. I almost forgot my

inner-child needs unconditional

love and attention. Man, I sure

do miss that kid. Every family

reunion, summer vacation,

holiday play, youth camp,

Christmas morning, Easter egg

hunt, and Thanksgiving dinner,

is nothing  more than a memory

that I carry  with me. Sometimes,

I forget they are there, but I can

always feel their weight. I pick

up another photo, and for just

a moment, I teleport to a simpler

time. For just a moment, I am no

longer a man, I am a baby

nestled in my mom’s arms.

I am a toddler, learning to take

his first steps, in the front yard

of my childhood home. For just

a moment, I am somewhere else.

I am with some friends and family,

who can’t exist outside the picture

frame that they are stuck in.

Each photo is a glimpse into

my past: a place that fits in

a small shoe box. I put everything

back and close the lid. Now,

I say goodbye to the old me.

I’ll leave the box here for

the next time I need it. Before

I leave, I promise myself to

never forget where all of my

time and memories went.