Grandma Lili, have found your Treasure Chest.
Tucked high in skylight,
I climbed the ladder and entered a mess,
Your attic of dust and webs.
In all the matter of neglect,
It sat as a beacon,
Locked away as if to protect,
Items taken through treason.
With reverence I sat before the Box,
Praying for the opposite of Pandora’s Fate,
To then with disregard break the lock,
I open to find a collection with weight.
First was a lock of hair,
White as cloud after a storm,
To Miss Duncan,
From her Love W.S.
Second was a bunch of letters,
Expressions of Passion and Devotion never fully meet.
From 1798 in Edinburgh,
To 1832 in Abbotsford.
They carried proses for one.
Fountain Pen Ink sonnets,
Telling stories of his beautiful Rose,
Who he found a little too late.
Third was a collection of romantic Scottish histories,
A single Author’s nostalgic imaginings,
Published by Ballantyne,
Signed to his Rose.
Last was a stack of notebooks,
Written by my grandmother’s hand,
Holding notes of knowledge,
That pieced together a romance that resulted in me.
On the last page I found tree,
Growing tall through bloodline.
That carried unions in its branches
And bared fruit of relativity.
At the top I could see,
A union not bound by Matrimony.
Through the Birth of Edward Scott Duncan,
Forever Miss Rose and Sir Walter bound.
Illegitimate he might have been,
From an affair that wasn’t seen,
Started a love that went on,
Through my family.