I opened my box.
A box of books and things of story,
A painting sad and  turbulent.
A tale adventurous and brave.
A picture of a party, friends, a family, a past.
A postcard from far away.
These drawings and words all jumbled together,
From theory to fiction to personal history to the ultimate story…
It seems what I have decided to take with me
Is memory.

Remember when you were a child
And you had so much frustration at your limitations,
And only dreams to battle them.
But it was happy.
Remember when that friend was the best friend you thought you’d ever have?
This friend here, this one though has stood the test of time.
Remember when you made promises?
Remember when you learned this lesson?
This person here says he remembered a time of darkness, too.
This author reminded me of David and other psalmists.
This character didn’t even have his books when he went far away.
Remember how to cook for 200 people? Here’s the recipe.
Remember how the grinch stole Christmas?
Poems are remembering and hoping
Sermons are exhorting and pleading to remember and think and reflect.

This is my box of books.
Sometimes I think it is all I have.
And then I remember.


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