The Trunk

by Angela Prew

The trunk had lain, unopened,
for sixty years or more.
Wondering what it held, I searched
and found the key,
creaked it open, peered inside;
books were there, long out of date.
Matric history teaching of a land
that never was, facts altered by ambitious men,
telling of white conquests in black Africa;
propaganda for the young.
Novels fell out, carefully packed,
favourites of teenage years.
Shoes, once fashionable, acme
of my sixth form taste, lay at my feet.
Dresses, good material, I could
use to sew new clothes;
a blazer, worn with pride, the legend
still shining on the pocket: Junior Hockey Team.
I held it up against me, eyes unfocussed, remembering.
‘Gran,’ the girl beside me cried,
‘It fits me, may I have it please?
On Saturday, I’ll wear it to the dance.’
Delighted, she ran to show it to her friends.

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