I spent the day following an old path, long forgotten it seems, yet memory served to know I’d been there before.  At times the path faded and when I almost gave up to return to present day pressures, the path’s edge or glimmer of thought would bring me back.

I felt compelled, for no nameable reason, to keep looking and following.  Weeds grew across the path, catching at my thoughts as I pushed on.  I wanted to leave…

The path stopped at a fallen tree, down long ago, it’s branches bare and stark against a sky with no color or clouds.  Trailing withered vines still clung to the tree.  Leaves fallen long ago lay in layers, unmoved by the wind or elements, the edges of decaying life filled the emotional well, yet there was no smell, no movement other than my own thoughts racing with the desire to leave yet knowing that I could not.

Along the trunk, I saw it.  The edge, covered with leaves, just enough edge to know why I was there.  I got down on my knees and crawled through branches until I could go no further.  I reached for the edge, it was just out of reach.  I reached again, pushing against the branches that seemed determined not to let me pass, this time just touching enough of the edge to find a corner.  It moved ever so slightly with my touch.  I tried again, this time managing to pull it out of its resting place where it had sat for how many years?

It was a box.  One side of it held an almost rosy glow as my fingers slid it towards me.  One side of it was dark and filled with deep ridges that ran randomly in uneven lines.  I pulled it from the branches and it and I sat for a long time, time that isn’t measured by a clock.  My thoughts chased ideas of what it held and why it had brought me here.  Did I have the nerve to lift the lid?  If I turned away, should I put it back where it was?

The air was still.  Silence dealt a strange appeal. I sat suspended in time with it in front of me.

I could not leave without knowing the contents, knowing I was drawn to know the contents, I lifted the lid with both hands and looked inside.  They were all there.  Some of them were broken, lying strewn around the bottom, the pieces each held a part of a whole.  Some were strong and full, with vibrant color.  Some were withered, becoming one with the box.

Did these belong to someone else or were they mine?

They were waiting, like a treasured friend, waiting for life to come to them again, to repair, to heal, to build, to send hope that life is never empty or lost as long as one dream stays alive.