In my excavation for family history a few years ago, I landed on a handmade wooden recipe box. It belonged to my grandmother and the contents appear to be from a high school home economics class project.
I riffle through the index cards in search of something personal and find one thing non-recipe related. It’s a scrap of paper torn from a magazine printed with a poem titled “Old Love” by C. Underwood.
As silly as it sounds, I repeatedly read the poem, hoping for a message from beyond. A glimpse into who my grandmother was, this person I loved my entire life, but did not fully know. Who was she before I came along?
I’ll never know why this poem caught her attention, but it passed through her heart and then her hands into mine.
Old Love
By C. Underwood
This has been a busy day
Cleaning out my heart;
So many trifles buried there
I found it hard to start.
First I blew the dream-dust off;
The place was thickly spread
With silver wings of lovely hours
That long ago lay dead:
Wishes, odd and out of date,
Plans, at least a score,
And here and there a tangled heap
Of worries on the floor.
Ruthlessly I brushed them out
Supposing I was through,
When suddenly I came upon
A little thought of you!
It was a wistful, tender thought.
I really didn’t dare.
I softly closed the crimson door
And left it hidden there.
This is the 23rd story in the Objects as Waypoints Writing Project series.