It’s a cold wintry day,
white snow and skies so grey,
I’m snuggled into my longjohns
To chase the chills away.

Sitting on the bedroom floor,
fingering through treasures stored
in a long-forgotten box
that hubby found behind the attic door.

Each relic I touch holds stories
I hear echos of joy and worries
I weep for the end of time and wasted chances
For the loved ones whose lives once flourished.

The treasures speak silence and laughter
Of voyages, weddings and happily-ever-afters,
I soak in the pleasure of visiting each loved one
Imagining their souls peeking from rafters.

Some of the relics seem to have more to say,
I cannot rewrap them away
I find a sweet spot on the mantle
Where they already feel they should stay.

I wrap all the others in bubbles
And carefully repack them without trouble
And hubby returns them to storage
In the attic amongst the other precious rubble.

New words: attic, basement, kitchen, closet