In the darkness of the evening,
To an attic filled with dust,
we climbed the spiral staircase,
Turned the doorknob covered with rust.
The door swung slowly open,
Creaky hinges woefully moaned,
As if to speak objections,
Like an old arthritic bone.
We saw the dark formation,
In the recess of the room,
We stood in the total silence,
As if, it was a tomb.
But moving bravely forward,
We lit a candle on the shelf,
There before our eyes,
Loomed Grandma's hidden weatlh.
We spent hours in the attic,
Reading notes, tucked in some books.
They were memos of her thoughts and hopes.
She must have known we'd take a look!
There were handkerchiefs and jewelry,
Hand-held mirrors made of gold.
Yet none compared to the book I held,
Nor would the book be sold.
Its value wasn't measured,
By wordly treasures we had viewed,
By by the revelation gleaned,
As we read the verses through.
Weatherd pages, from the years long past,
And many times of use,
Drew us back for years to come,
To read the Lord's Good News.
Within that age-old trunk, we found,
Love...For humanity.
Love so great, He gave his Son,
To set the whole world free.
Too, we realized at last,
Just what our Grandma gave,
When she left that trunk for us find,
On this cold and wintry day.
@Marie Williams
