Random Thoughts of a Shoebox

And our smothering inability to color

Outside the lines,

See outside the box,

Drive without a destination

But this life -

As precious and fleeting as breath . . .

My father,

Three times divorced, once said that

Relationships should not be work

He's had time to notice the small things

Teeming under the surface

And running in

Criss-crossed lines

The familiar and random constellations

Of people,

Places,

Made into categories

And solidified by our ever shrinking wonder

Ever expanding notions of what 'should be'

How many faces are fading in my father's shoebox?

How many plans forsaken and only remembered

In the yellow lamp light

Of a late night move

Or escapade into moonlit memories?

An old photo -

A woman smiling at an unseen cameraman

A movie stub

A train ticket

A love letter

Will he remember these moments

As better left and lost than forged through?

Or, will a memory strike him -

In that sinking way that nostalgia enraptures us all -

And wonder,

If he made the right choice?