A Childhood Throw No. 1

I was unpacking my things last night,
Delving through battered boxes of bulky size,
Crowded with objects of an exhausted nature.
Droplets of rain were rapping on my window panes,
Begging to be welcomed inside
As I tore open my twenty-third box
With my father’s old swiss army knife.

At eleven-thirty-seven in the evening,
I had decided this to be the last one tonight.
I wish I had been a more cautious packer,
And that I had put the silverware in a box
With the plates and bowls,
And titled that box something along the lines of
“Kitchen Items” or “Things We Eat With”.

Rather, I had packed in haste.
Tossing items of no correlation into the same box,
Without labels of any kind.
Consequently, there I was in the corner
Of my new single-bedroom flat,
Pulling a set of salt-and-pepper shakers
Out from underneath my nana’s favorite hat.

As I reached the end of box twenty-three,
I was surprised to find what was right in front of me,
A tattered blanket bearing shades of sapphire blue
Patterned with hues of white and grey too.
And it’s stunning how a dusty childhood throw
Is more capable of bringing me to reminiscence
Than a photograph shot with my sisters ten years ago.