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| Photo by Oleksandra Petrova on Unsplash |
Vintage Years
By Marilyn R Wilson
In an ancient, well hidden village.
Tucked in the fold between two old hills,
Up an unnamed narrow lane
Was a rarely visited, unusual shop.
From the outside it looked worn.
Definitely past it's best by date.
Paint was peeling like a bad sunburn
Off the scarred wooden door.
The sign? A hand written scrawl,
Almost illegible, it declared.
"Open. Used curiosities await."
How could I resist the siren's call?
Inside there were the usual clothing racks,
But the garments hanging offered a twist.
As I touched each well worn piece
A vision of of their past life arose.
Weddings, births, celebrations,
Funerals, performances, travels.
Laughter, tears, joys and sorrows,
All played out in my mind.
I crept deeper into the shop,
Searching for what had drawn me in.
By old toys and used housewares,
Each yearning to share their own story.
In the far back was a dimly lit rack.
Hung off kilter on it - a crude sign
In large block letters it declared
For Sale - Vintage Years.
Instead of memories, the items displayed
Offered, at a touch, visions of the possible.
What could my vintage years look like?
What hidden treasures might I discover?
Slowly I moved from one item to the next,
Gently cradling them. Basking in their visions.
Path after path I could choose to follow.
Unexpected adventures to explore.
Then without warning it happened
I touched THE piece whose siren's call
Had drawn me to this hidden place,
A siren call full of promise and joy.
I left the store cradling my purchase
Clutching it tightly to my beating heart.
And while I walked away from the old store,
I embraced the joy of where I was heading.
My vintage years awaited.
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