The sunlight gleamed through the window, shining on the dust particles. They seemed to float through the air as if they were tiny little dancers . I heard my mother sigh, and as I turned, she pulled a giant trunk from the corner of the attic. “This belonged to your great-great-grandmother,” she told me. “You probably don’t remember much about her.” I walked through the dust, breathing in everything that was bad for me, but I was smiling. I knew they were dancing in my lungs. She was right, I didn’t remember her at all; I was only a few months old when she passed. “Can we open it?” I had already begun pulling at the latches. The trunk swung open, and more of those tiny dancers joined their friends. Inside, there were mostly old clothes and a few trinkets. I pulled out a scarf. It was the same color a young child has on her cheeks when her schoolgirl crush pulls at her hair. Something deep inside of me yearned to examine every inch of it. As I carefully unwrapped it, a small book fell out. I reached down to pick it up. I thumbed the pages, and flipped to a random page. I held my breathe as my eyes clung onto every word.
June 16th, 1856:
His eyes were so blue. So, so blue,
as blue as the ocean he dreamt of crossing.
The ocean that would separate us if he ever got his way.
He told me he loved me, but there was so much more out there
than this small Louisiana town.
There were mountains and oceans,
and so many new places being discovered,
and he couldn’t bare the thought
of never touching snow.
There was opportunity,
and a chance for him to become someone.
There was a ship leaving tomorrow,
he said softly; He knew those words broke me.
He told me he wanted to see the world,
and he wondered why I didn’t want the same.
I told him it was simple,
I was already looking at it.
I flipped to the next page, but it was blank.
