Two Hours Under the Stairs

I had planned on going to bed early tonight. I swear.

I remembered that I needed to look for a poem that I had written for my Dad in the 10th grade. I wanted to give it to him for his birthday in a couple of days. So, I ventured into our storage room under the stairs.

I found out very quickly that we own too much luggage.

I also found out that you should never venture under the stairs, especially while in possession of such a full and tender heart, as I had today.

I got lost in the boxes of memories. While looking for my poem I sifted through years of memories and found several lost treasures;

-Old poems that I don't even remember being mature enough to write
-Black & White photos I had taken at my Mom's cabin on the island and created Christmas cards with that year-A picture of my friend Marilyn and I, with actress Ann Margaret
-Two amazing stories that my Dad wrote years ago
-The tribute I wrote and read at my Grandmother's funeral
-A picture of me, I once thought horrible, that I now realize is beautiful
-Poems entrusted to me by an old friend
-My favorite picture of me ever ( I must have been 3 years old; naked with a toque on carrying a bottle of "The Pop Shop" pop)---------------->

-Cards and letters from my parents

And of course, piles of memories encapsulated in photos from my entire life

I realized that we all take pictures of our best times. Looking back it is so easy to reflect on those wonderful memories and feelings.
It's a double edged sword, not taking pictures of our worst times. There are no pictures taken at funerals, break ups, or times of sickness, for the most part anyway. I find that rather unfortunate, because looking back upon those times we often look the most beautiful , as human beings, in our vulnerability.

I had almost given up looking for my Dad's poem. I looked in one last box. The one that has my yearbooks and all of the Disney Video Tapes (yes VHS tapes ) I started to accumulate as a teenager for my future children. I found the poem and was surprised that it made no mention of my Dad at all. Yet, I remember the assignment being to write about one of our parents. Odd.

I guess, like the photos and letters stashed in a box, it does say something about where I came from. I hope he likes it.

I am an elm tree, constantly growing with each passing day.
My roots extend far below the earth's surface and are twisted and complicated.
They are stretching outward and interlace with neighbouring trees.
I am equipped with branches that have grown during different points in my life
and shelter and protect me from harsh conditions.
My leaves are normally open and welcome, however, on overcast days,
they tend to curl and hide, leaving me cold and vulnerable to harsh or cruel weather.
Sometimes I wish I were an evergreen.

Language Arts Assignment, C.H. High School, 1989