Beneath the Bed

The space under my bed has a dry feel.
Smells of dust you can taste in the air
Prickles at my nose and eyes
Items accumulated over the years,
Reaching back I find a box,
Old and worn, I once bought the shoes in it.
The lid covered in dust bulges a little,
The contents near to overflowing.
I blow at dust, open, and look.

Inside are envelopes with edges
Worn and tearing open.
Full of letters, cards, or little notes.
Some tattered, some quite recent.
A twelfth birthday card, a sister’s apology
Letters from my cousins written at age ten
Hearts on American Girl stationary.
Yearly girl’s camp letters from parents, leaders.
I read them sitting on the floor.
Remember the love I felt
The first time I read the worn papers.

The box back in the darkness
Clean lid still bulging
But I can’t clean it out.
The space under my bed is full
Of moments, laughter, tears, and faces.
Faces of people who loved and still love me.
In the dust I can take on the world.