by Dale Hudgins Copyright 2001-2004

This is my most valuable possession,

The old man said,

With a tear in his eye, but a smile on his leathery face,

Holding an old graying box,

Which once held the fresh, now wilted, flowers,

Assorted pictures of a happy, looking, young couple,

A baby, and one, of a clapboard house,

I know you think it’s not much, or very valuable, what is in here,

But, to me, what is in here, is more valuable,

Than all your gold, and diamonds, ever mined,

Rocking back and forth and clutching that box,

A tear began to form in his eye,

As he told me his story,

He was relativity young man,

Early forties, he was,

When he met the woman that he always dreamed of,

A woman who was perfect in every way,

Beautiful, smart, kind and good to him,

Even gave him, flowers, for Valentine’s Day,

He said with love and pride,

But, the most important reason of all,

Was that she loved him, and he loved her,

Loved her, so very much,

They made a life, filled with much joy and laughter,

Made a young one too,

The years passed and the baby grew,

Met and married someone of her own,

The house was empty, now,

Just wasn’t the same,

Her days and nights turned inward, to herself,

I wasn’t there for her much, he regretted,

Work consumed him,

Found her one night, with a bottle of many she had turned to for solace,

Found her, sitting in her chair,

But, it was now, too late,

With her hand clutching a yellowed picture,

And, some old, wilted flowers,

With many tears, now streaming down his sad face,

You can see, if you’ve been listening close,

Why this old box, I’m holding,

Means the world to me.