I took the old box from the top shelf,

and placed it on the sofa at my side,

It was filled with photos of long ago,

of some still living and others that's died.

Most were just strewn in no special order,

much like the files of my life,

Tears began to flow from my burning eyes,

when I found one of the day you became Dad's wife.

So young and beautiful, dark flowing hair,

your eyes glowed and reflected your joy,

You had vibrant tones to your lovely skin,

and Dad, well he looked not much older than a boy.

One by one I began to look through your memories,

recalling stories that you had told,

Faces of people, places and things,

even myself, when I wasn't very old.

I keep telling myself I'll put them in albums,

to keep them from fading away,

But they've all survived in that dusty old box,

for many years and a day.

There are other special moments lying within,

special kept letters and one dried rose.

In the very bottom all neatly folded,

some very well penned poetry and prose.

The words were faded the paper brittle,

stained I'm sure by the author's tears.

But as I read them aloud I thought I heard,

the sound of your voice soft and clear.

I've read them all over and over again,

and always I find something different each time.

What I hear most is how pleased you were,

that your life contained rythym and rhyme.

I'm still not sure just what I was looking for,

or maybe it was something I needed to feel.

I know that each time when I replace the lid,

I'm left feeling as though I've had a soul nourishing meal.