The Box

The reflection of a fire burning
Illuminates steel gray and dimming eyes where
Once bright blue sparkled – even in twilight.
Howling winds propel sea spray
Through unsealed windowpanes.
Yet the form in the chair seems not to notice
The chill in the cottage by the sea.
In the darkness, her frail silhouette rocks in tandem
With the rolling breakers sounding in the distance.
Long, flowing silver hair falls
Gently across graceful shoulders.
Soft skin, aged and tempered by time still mirrors
The beauty she once held with such modesty.
In her lap, a thick down blanket warms her legs.
Atop, sits an ornate box
Caressed by long slender fingers.
Inside, treasures of a life reveal
The yearnings of a young girl’s heart
Forbidden love tasted on moonlit nights –
Promises broken and memories
Of a love that could not be.
Locks of hair from babies birthed
And treasured keepsakes –
From those who came before her –
And those whom she will live on through…
All that was and all that might have been
Encapsulated inside one tiny box.
As the night moves to twilight,
Glowing embers grow gray.
The chair stills and tired eyes close
As tiny withered hands clench the box,
The old woman draws in one last breath
And releases her life
Into the sea winds and rolling waves.