Follow Vishal Dutia on WordPress.comThe door opens to hot, musty air,
dust laden steps curtained
with spider webs and a bare bulb
that strews yellow light over
dusty conch shells loitering next to
a battered tin lunch box, paint-faded,
sitting empty for nearly one hundred years.Wires strung from one end to the other
provide a laundry line of sorts where
plastic bags encase an Army uniform
last worn in 197l and a coat trimmed
with raccoon slain seventy years ago.On the floor a pile of tattered games
and jigsaw puzzles lie abandoned next
to a forlorn Ouija board, its magic lost
to forgetfulness.And why should the children remember
when the children have grandchildren
of their own?And there, in a corner, sitting by itself,
is a box holding a treasure, so special,
barely used, hardly touched,
saved for occasions that never were,
etched with grapes and vines
twined together like the friendship
which bestowed this wedding gift,
sixty-six years old, givers and recipients
dead, their joy lost to time in a dusty attic
but still housed in this abandoned box.
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Daɗdy wins!? Thhe twins declared.