You can write about anything, she said. I remember looking at the lock and key of the chest that lays at my feet, across from my favorite writing spot.
I couldn’t take my eyes off the keyhole, thinking about all the memories inside the chest. It’s deep scratches and minor scuffs. The way the paint had worn away. You can see the slightest remnants of toll painting; it’s Scandinavian history. The square nails and hand forged brackets. Where had she been before she became my possession? What can I learn from the missing paint, the corner brackets that still allow her to hold her shape. The way the metal latch holds a toothy grin. Who painted the flowers, I thought to myself, as I glanced at the painting I pulled for today’s writing assignment.
I painted those flowers. Those flowers are me. They are a conglomerate of the very little I know about painting and the fact that I know enough. I know enough to get started and curious enough to keep going.
Did the painter of the trunk have skill; were they my ancestor or did the trunk come that way? Was it a gift or a planned purchase? Was it the beginning of the journey, or had it journeyed before? Did my ancestors live easily and well or was it tough and daunting – This journey of the trunk?
The journey of hundreds of years, thousands of miles, sitting down now with no travel left in her. She has become nothing, yet everything. I have many a bruise from her outcropping key and I no longer close her lid, lacking confidence in her reopening.
She is my constant reminder of the journey – know enough to get started and curious enough to keep going.
