That Box

I want to tuck away your giggles in a corrugated cradle,
Seal them behind flap and tape where little feet once wiggled.
Let me stash your chirping voices alongside your mismatched socks,
So one day, when the house echoes only with my footsteps,
I can pry open that secret vault and sift through these moments again.

Back then, I never noticed how the sun would linger on your hair,
Or how your hands pressed tiny fingerprints on the day’s horizon.
Birthdays crept up on me like hungry vines,
Reaching higher and faster than my slow understanding could catch.

Now, the box is only a cardboard dream, bent corners and fading ink,
And I stand here holding memories that are too big to contain.
If I could fold time like a blanket and place it on a high shelf,
I’d slip your laughter inside, small as it was, yet filled my heart.

But this afternoon, you’re already an inch taller,
Your independence rattling around the house like change in a jar.
Oh, to open a lid and watch you tumble out,
Still believing the world fits entirely in your outstretched palms.

Instead, I stand guard over the fragments of who you used to be,
Conjuring lullabies that once lulled you to sleep.
I never learned to slow the clock-I just learned to miss you sooner,
Hoping one day, you might find my longing tucked inside that box.