Today I went through my hope chest with a purpose. An idea had been percolating, brewing in intensity for awhile. 
A beautiful cedar box, made by my Grandmothers brother for my high school graduation present, over twenty years ago.

It’s seen some hard times. Moving from my parents house, to my apartment in Winnipeg, to my adult house in The Pas, and maybe a trip to Montreal, although that I’m not sure of.

It lost a corner to a canine, and now it sits in my closet, holding clothes on it’s top and my memories inside.

My purpose today was to ferret out previous treasures, 

My writing.

I had been overcome by the savage desire to read words I’ve put on paper over the last 30 years. 

My attempts at art going back to middle school, 

when I discovered poetry and prose,

When I first experimented with my own words as a form of expression instead of merely devouring those of others,

In whatever form I could find in the library, 

the weekly ritual of checking out as many books as the librarian allowed

I opened the lid, the musty smell of paper greeting me like a long lost friend.

Delicately I drew out essays from high school and university before finally spotting the treasure I’d been searching for-

A few coiled notebooks, 

A special one laced in gold thread. 

I placed them gently in a pile before shutting the lid again. I don’t have time tonight to read them, but anticipation fills me at the thought of what I may find.

The awkward musings of a teenage girl with too much time on her hands,

The maudlin thoughts of a perpetual student, for sure 

But maybe, just maybe,

A few old friends wait for me,

Ready to tell me their story again for the first time