The Lavender Box

The travel-memory boxes glanced

From the glass shelves like every other day. 

Calling out to me with their ounce of hope,

As if they have lot to say.

I picked up the one covered with lavender satin.

It was from the summer of 2017.

The inner fabric was still bright

But the exteriors had faded, 

From the sun's golden light.

The box had a receipt of the cafe

The one with the dartboard from across the street

The printed letters had ashened

But the handwritten message on it

Still smelled sweet. 

A letter, a ribbon, few bills,

And that leaf from the park,

Some muted, some still same, 

And few with some marks,

Chronicled the anecdotes, the conversations, 

And the stories,

Like they would never let go

Of those days of glories.

The faded fabric and the marks

Didn't matter anymore,

When the travel-memory box

Brought its core to the fore.

Aren't memories too, mysteriously alike? 

We think they have faded into oblivion,

But a trifling touch paints everything radiant 

Within a second's strike.

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