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I came upon an old steamer trunk in our garage. As I rummaged through the keepsakes, I felt as though I were receiving letters from my younger days, memories tucked away and nearly forgotten. Such are the nature of keepsakes, they keep alive the past while we are off busy with other things.
Kept Letters
slowly gathered,
words kept in private hideaways,
in treasure boxes,
tied so very carefully,
almost reverently,
as bundles of loving moments
that age so gently
yet somehow so painfully
into mists of wistful melancholy,
the remains of a love
that went away,
one day,
one endless rainy day,
the day that came after all the beautiful days were done,
the romance that surely should have been,
but turned and left, down the street,
never to return,
yet she does return
on all the lonely, rainy nights,
to sniff the fragrance of long ago,
to pull the twine and let it fall upon the floor,
to unfold the pages, one by one,
and read once more the tender words
of loves departed
and are no more.
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