27 April 2010

Treasure Chest

I built a treasure chest. With gold frills and jewel pieces. I laced the chest with silver coils, shaping danger signs barring curious explorers from opening it. Inside it I put an Egyptian ankh, the toe of the first homo erectus man. Over the years I found more great wonders, like the diary of Amelia Earhart, the Bermuda Triangle's secret. I put it all in this treasure chest of mine, and said, the day will come, when one will dare open this chest.

I have to admit the exterior wasn't as strong as it was misleading. I threw the magic hair dust of a pixie that left a packet under the pillow when I lost my first tooth. Some would see, instead of a beautiful chest a dirty sack of socks. Others would see a dining table, and apart from inquiring why on earth it was placed in the middle of a bedroom, they would not give it a second look. Still more came and saw a hardened wooden chastity chest, but there was one that commented that the box looked like a diamond in the rough.

I delighted at the observations at first, because I knew what I had in the chest. I could see through the pixie dust. Then I lost sight of the shine on gold, and soon the coil looked weathered and weak. The gems were dusty and the box lost it's lustre. So one day when the man came over for dinner, and chanced upon the chest, I thought he was crazy.

The man said, he saw a chest. He wondered what treasures it had, and I called him a fruitcake and delusional. He laughed, not taking offence and said he wanted to open it. I told him to go ahead, and I was proven right. The ankh was stuck together with lollypop sticks, and the Bermuda's secrets were snippets from an old paper describing it. The toe of the first human man was nothing but a dirty acorn, decomposing happily in the warmth of the air from the years gone.

But the diary was of mine. Of a girl with imagination that would astound Enid Blyton. There were drawings inside it that probably meant something, in the mind of the artist aged eight. But they didn't make sense now. It was a dirty old box, gathering dust in the corner of a bedroom that was no longer used.

That night, in the dark, I looked at the chest that had so much hope. Not hope for the world but for a future and a life so beautiful and in sync. I did not know when I had lost sight of the chest and try as I may I could not see it as it was. I panicked and threw it out of the window. How could I not see it, when it belonged to me?

1 comment:

Eni said...

I am elated to learn that you have written a diary that would even astound Enid Blyton. Maybe, we may look forward for you publishing that diary, maybe as long as you do not have some skeltons in the closet to disclose. Enid Blyton also wrote a lot of personal diaries, although most of the diaries she wrote during her most productive part of her career as a writer were destroyed. Nonetheless, you may be glad to learn that I have published a book on Enid Blyton, titled, The Famous Five: A Personal Anecdotage (www.bbotw.com).
Stephen Isabirye