John McCullagh July 7, 2007
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It was old, carved and made of wood

For years at the foot of her bed it stood

We never ever thought to look inside ..

On the night she died,

It passed to me

I opened it … and there did see

A collection of my mother’s memories.
 

On the inside lid she’d listed

All that she had done with Da

Before he passed away

The good times and the bad

The happy and the sad

Things he didn’t want to do

But she did them anyway.
 

On four sides, carved in white

She noted down with pride

The dates and times of things that we had done

From school, to bat and ball

My mother could recall

The achievements of her daughters and her son.
 

On the bottom was a picture of Da

When he was young

Outside this place that we call our home

Many nights I saw my mother down upon her knees

Crying softly as her tears fell

In her box of memories.
 

Well now that she has gone,

I do as she had done

Write down those things that mean a lot to me

For her memories done by hand

I now clearly understand

The treasure that my mother left

Inside a box for me.
 

On her anniversary each year

A special time for us

My sisters sit upon my bed and open up her box

We smile and laugh,

And sometimes cry

At those things that she held dear

While her love moved all around us

Like it did in yesteryear.
 

It was old and carved and made of wood

Just a box for all to see …

But inside it held a lifetime

Of my mother’s memories.

 

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