An old canvas bag tucked in between tattered boxes
lying on the floor of the storage room crisscrossed
I’m selling the family house.
The canvas is yellow, splotched with brown hues
covered with dust from the ages.
Whose canvas bag?
I untie the knot that holds the heavy contents:
standard sized hammer, medium chisel, a few
five inch nails.
The rough surface of the canvas, the smell of lost time
scrape away the years and I see my father
coming home from work
tired, but happy to see us, his daughters.
We climb over him and empty his pant cuffs.
The sawdust of the day spill out.
It’s like finding gold.