The box of my dreams is lost.
I placed it, I remember
under the bed of my youth,
and told myself never,
ever to forget it.
Yet when I look today,
under and around,
all I find is dust
that I cannot hold
in my hand.

I called Dad on the phone
and asked,
as polite as I could
if he'd seen this box,
under my bed
when our house
was packed and all memories
stuffed in boxes to be
sorted and separated
in the divorce
and he thought me
quite insane.

Mom says she recalls
some small trinket
perhaps, amongst
the important of things
yet she found it lacking any
and probably threw it away.

How odd this. Dreams.
Not important enough to save.
Easily tossed
along with all the other
unimportant "trinkets"
of the only daughter
the union produced.

But then again,
not odd really
that she should
trash my dreams.
I'm sure when she saw them
she called Dad
and spoke of them, and
they simply decided
the dreams of a child
with her head in the clouds
and her hands forever trembling
were not worth saving.

WhiteRose