Dusty wooden box

 

A small wooden box sat on his dresser. A dust collector except for the times he noticed it and rubbed it clean with the handkerchief he kept in his pocket. He would open it and smile at his treasures collected over time, each object a memory of his life. A red pocket knife his dad gave him on his tenth birthday. He later learned his dad had ordered it out of the sears catalog. That knife turned sticks into spears and sliced countless apples. A constant reminder that he was armed in case of alien attacks. There was a picture of Christ on the cross a holy card given to him by his mom telling him to hold onto it and pray when he felt the need. He couldn’t count the times he did just that. There was a silver dollar his grandpa gave to him the day he graduated from high school telling him his first dollar was free but those to follow would not come so easy. A small cloth bag holding six marbles that he played with as a boy. Each time he saw them he was reminded of childhood friends who faded away over time, but the memories stayed with him always. There were a couple military ribbons he earned while in the navy and a medal he didn’t talk about too much. A lock of his wife’s hair, a baby bootie and a worn-out leather wallet he carried for most his adult life. Closing the old box on the dresser he looked into the mirror and realized all the years he’s been on this earth amount to a dusty wooden box filled with one mans treasures and he was ok with that.