(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Sometimes I refer to my brain as a filing cabinet. But let’s be honest: it’s more like a chest of drawers. File folders would turn their nose up at the jumble of odd-shaped trinkets and treasures lodged in my sexagenarian* mind.
AND NOW, A STORY
This morning, someone left one of my drawers open. I could tell they’d been rummaging around. Stuff wasn’t evenly distributed. What were they looking for? Mismatched socks? My cache of chocolate? That thingamabob I found on the trail?
I’m not a practicing archaeologist, but I could tell where the drawer-opener stopped digging. It was over on the right side, at the back. Everything was cleared away. It sat there smiling up at me with fixed admiration.
It’s a clay figurine. I’ve had it ever since I was a little boy, down in Mexico. Back then, my eyes were sharp. When we visited ancient Aztec sites, I sometimes found artifacts that everyone else had overlooked. I was good at it… the best. In fact, I think you should know: I almost made a career of it. In college, the academic advisor asked what I’d like to study. “Archaeology,” I said.
“Are you independently wealthy?”
“No sir.”
“Well then forget about it!”
And I did. But I held onto that thought: “I’m good at it… the best!” And I kept the clay figurine as a reminder. It never fails to look up at me, and smile.
“You’re good at it… the best. You found me when nobody else could.”
_____________
*That’s the word; don’t blame me!
(The image here is of someone else’s figurine. Most of mine are mere memories.)
