The Family Archive
With moldy hand through tender shards I graze
In boxes, old and dusty, some collapsed,
And gently now curate chaotic stuff,
In decades gathered, then in time forgot.
The pictures, clippings, postcards, angry notes,
The scribbles, artwork, essays, bank receipts,
Notebooks, papers, scrapbooks, letters, missives…
Accumulated, tucked away, consigned.
Shifted house to house and time to time,
Age to age and place to place and thus
To me, reluctant keeper, holder now,
By circumstance, of this unsightly mass.
By diligently working I’ll preserve
The meaningful, and cull and organize,
And relegate the great amounts of chaff,
And separate, distinguish all the lives.
I’ll save these chancy documents of life,
By seven children carelessly compiled,
By this reluctant keeper now imbued
With strange officious weightiness at last.
Not easy, though, proceeds the keeper’s hand,
Who saw and heard, or learnt, or knows the tales,
In spirit, part of everything evoked,
Who shared the stage, the joys, the sadness too.
For those to whom discarded things belong
May fairly just discard them on receipt,
The keeper, though, who plucked them, passed them on
Can scarce avoid the buffeting they bring.
Not just the silent quaintness found in things—
Forgotten words or fading photographs—
So much as that they stir a time or place,
Whole periods of life and all their scenes.
These roughly float disturbed through musty air,
To light upon a disconcerted soul,
And stay the keeper briefly from his work,
Perhaps to cause a smile, a shrug, a sigh…
And room is made for yet another age,
From stacks of paper organized and piled
In shining boxes, for my siblings tagged,
From culled-out refuse tossed beside the curb.
Yes – clear some room for yet another age,
An age whose leavings won’t be quite so thick,
An age of many pages without form,
In ether born and kept—they don’t impose:
No physical reminder, and as such
No keeper, then, to linger over them,
Not any one, in dour solitude,
In time to sort through time and think it real.
And so, a proclamation and a tear,
The proud reluctant keeper’s done his work,
His duty, lonely taken up, discharged,
Long to work on his reluctant mind,
Till things evoked and images aroused,
In dusty mental boxes be consigned.
Robert Thomas, a graduate of the classics program at Oxford, writes poetry, short stories and alternative history fiction. He lives in Toronto, Canada. His website is robertthomasauthor.com
