Natalie Martell

Treasure

The endless history of my grandfather’s house
enchanted me, and as a young, curious girl
there was nothing to do but discover.
Every room was a wondrous unknown, a haven to explore,
where mysteries hid behind every corner
and nothing was ever out of reach.

Down in the basement,
where ancient relics lay peacefully among
letters and old magazines,
everything stands still, paused in time
and I found a glint of silver reaching out
from under the bits and pieces.
It was a big, silver coin
with the edges worn down from age
and dirt etched around the bold letters.
I wondered where this coin had traveled.
I wondered where this coin had been,
and it was beautiful to me.

My grandfather sat in his favorite chair
and spun the coin between his fingers,
telling me of the generations that had passed down
this beautiful piece of history.
His wrinkly fingers closed over the coin,
rough as old leather,
and it seemed at home in his aged hand.
Hands that had worked in the fields, tied ropes,
and fed animals as they crowded around him.
They were old, yet they were wise, familiar,
hands that had a story, just like this coin.

I looked at him innocently and asked
if I could have this treasure, this rusty old coin.
He smiled and said to me,
“Carry this coin home, it’s your treasure now.
Hold it close and remember where it’s been and where it’s going;
remember its story as you remember me.”




[TABLE OF CONTENTS, LHS CLASS OF 2012 EDITION]


Copyright © 2002-2010 Student Publishing Program (SPP). Poetry and prose © 2002-2010 by individual authors. Reprinted with permission.