The Photograph

It was an old-time photograph,
in faded black and white.
You couldn’t even tell when it
was taken, day or night.

The edges of the photograph
were yellowed and were worn.
I knew at once the scene was old,
before I had been born.

There were two people who had posed,
though neither showed a smile.
At first I wondered who they were;
it took a little while.

But then, of course, it came to me,
for they looked like my dad.
I never knew his dad and mom.
I’d always wished I had.

I’d found this snapshot yesterday
while I was sorting stuff.
Because there were so many things
the process has been tough.

This photograph was in a book,
deep in a wooden chest.
I found the chest beneath a cloth
where it had lain in rest.

This attic held a lot of junk,
stored up here long ago.
And now I must get rid of it,
all this stuff had to go.

My parents’ house was up for sale;
I had to clean it out.
I thought it wouldn’t take too long
but now I had some doubt.

This task was taking much too long.
The fault belonged to me.
‘Cause each and every thing I touched
brought back a memory.

This photograph caused me to pause.
I had to hold back tears.
I thought back on the life I’ve lived
and all the happy years.

This house had been my boyhood home.
Sometimes I missed it so.
But that was in the distant past.
Now it was time to go.

I miss my family all the time
but now they all were gone.
They’d left a legacy of love
for me to carry on.

So I decided not to sell.
Right then I changed my mind.
Who knows what other treasures might
be in this house to find?