The Antique Shop

The small antique shop beckons to me as if calling my name.
I hurry to enter with great anticipation.
The chime above the door provides an eerie greeting.
The store is aglow with articles of times past.
I pass from aisle to aisle my eyes darting from relic to relic.
I see high top shoes with white laces.
I see brushes and combs with pearl handles.
I see pictures, in boxes, of families in fine clothes.
I see a doll in the corner eyes staring blankly ahead.
I see worn dresses on racks with lace collars and bows.

My journey through time continues as I move on in haste.
I see a stringless violin in a black scuffed up case.
I see silverware with fine bone handles.
I see pocket watches with long golden chains.
I see hundreds of tiny bottles that once held fine fragrances.
I see scratched phonograph records strewn hither and yon.
I see fine tools of the trade in hand crafted cases.
I see rows of fine china all hand painted with care.
I see a faded picture of a child with long golden hair.

Suddenly I pause as my mind starts to reflect.
Everything before me shelters a story of long ago.
They are not useless items that I view but the relics of lives past.
Each article once the personal possession of a living breathing soul.
With a new respect for the articles before me I move on.
Ghostly images of faces now accompany each piece that I see.
If I purchase just one it must be displayed with the utmost dignity.
For its original owner will have bestowed its care to me.
I leave the shop with my new treasure all neatly wrapped.
The chime above the door signals my departure.
The stale aroma of the shop is replaced by the cool evening air.
Life, as fragile as the tiny piece of crystal that I carry, goes on.

Copyright 2007 Charlie Gragg