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I met a man a few years back
He had bowed legs and a brown
leather pack
I asked him about his bag one
day
It's nothing
but memories,
was all he had to
say
I pressed him further, What does it contain?
The only
things that
can ease this old man's pain.
I questioned him about his
past
what had put the creases in
his browned face
He began to weave a story
about his life
proving he was the last of a
great race
One by one he removed his
treasures
Once again reliving their
pleasures.
A lock of hair, black and
course
This, he said was from my best horse
I rode him
from Montana to Kentucky
over what
would be a two year journey
The knife he brought forth
was antique and rusted
His face fell a bit when he
said
With blood
it's been crusted.
Next a scarf, dust blown, threadbare
His eyes got misty
My girl, she
wore this in her hair
She gave it
to me when I began to travel
I kept it
tied to Charger's saddle.
One more item he withdrew
from his sack
An old faded shirt he'd worn
on his back
My girl made
this shirt long, long ago
His eyes revealed emotion
he'd not meant to show
I wore this
faded garment almost every day
Then I
realized my hair had turned gray
Old Charger'd
been out to pasture for years
He paused, bowed his head,
dried his tears
The old
cowboy days are in the past
I just hope
the memory of them will last.
He looked at me then, deep in
my soul
What he saw there I'm not
sure I know
But he reached out his worn
leather pack
Here, he said, help me keep the memory
clear
and bring the
old days back
He gave me a look I'll not
soon forget
and placed in my hands the
pack with no sign of regret.
He left me then, that
weathered cowboy
My emotions a mingling of
sadness and joy
I'd met my soul mate, that
old man of the West
To keep his memories alive
I'd do my best
The old leather sack is
enshrined in my case
And ancient glass cabinet
wherein my treasures I place
I look at the pack often
and
think of my wanderer and his
faithful steed Charger
I realize then that would we
all meet the past
Our hearts and minds would
grow so much larger.
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About the author, Rebekah Sells
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I got the idea to write the
poem one night when I had just returned from a visit with my
great grandparents. After I'd written it, my mom
interpreted it for me, as she tends to do with all my poems.
My great grandfather, Hank Velthouse, 96, is the inspiration of
my old cowboy. While he was never an Old West cowboy, he
is my living link to the past that I find so intriguing, perhaps
he is the reason for my interest. The pack and its
contents represent all the memories he and my great grandmother
have passed on to the rest of the family. The glass shrine
is my mind and heart, in which I keep my most treasured
possessions.
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Rebekah
is a junior at Hartford High School. Her poem, The Pack©, was published in
the Hartford Public Schools Newsletter, March, 2002, Volume 3,
Number 3.
The Pack© is a
copyrighted poem and cannot be reprinted or published without
expressed written permission from the author, Rebekah
Sells. Please email the webmaster for contact
information.
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