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Closing the Box

Flora Smith

Nov 01 2011

1 mins

His box held war medals, pay book, discharge papers,
photos of soldiers from his years in the desert: young men
riding donkeys, horses, camels, young men larking in the sun.

A battered tin box at the bottom of his wardrobe
with a gift of sepia photos swimming in and out of focus,
soldiers riding in “The Gaza Cup” one New Year’s Day.

I cannot find my father in the serum of spectators,
among men tearing down a makeshift track, but he’d be
there somewhere, our champion rider and first class larrikin.

I tried to close the box, but something caught
on rusted corners; my fingers shaking with the huge, hard sobs
of someone who never weeps and does not know how

but knows that this would soon be all I had of him.
 

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