There are times when even a humble thing
Becomes a treasure we love and hold dear.
A simple black box so scratched and so worn,
Brought a distant father suddenly near.
For in that box were kept many letters
He wrote long ago to his Mom and Dad.
They were written on something called V-mail
Which often was all that many guys had.
I never really got to know my Dad,
Which happens, and though I never knew why.
For a long time I tried to find answers,
Which never came, so I let the past die.
One day, a cousin who I barely knew
Thought I might want the black box he had found.
In it were Dad's letters, his Army things,
And a book on Lindbergh specially bound.
The letters since then I've read countless times.
And almost all I can recite by heart.
The portrait painted brought a Dad to love
Who I am joined to now, so long apart.
So that is why this plain and simple box
Is treasured more than anything I prize.
It's all of my Dad that I know for now,
And must do me, til God chooses otherwise.