It’s the torn, overstuffed shoebox,
on the high shelf in the back closet.
It’s the walking there with the kitchen stool,
and the simple tug of the chain for light.
It’s the balance required to stand,
coupled with the difficulty to reach it.
It’s certainly the shape, and the weight of lowering it;
the heavy layer of dust and that sweet stale odor.
It’s always been the past; the fear and time spent away.
It’s always been the present, and the courage to open.