He chose to give it away,
Without even asking,
It was the scrapper,
Who got lucky that day!
Over the years, those pieces of papers,
Painstakingly written letters, greeting cards and two-diaries,
Lying untouched in one corner of my room,
I thought, were safe in the big brown carton.
The adolescent secrets, girlie talks,
Every page had a memory and a few hearty laughs,
A coded language was invented to keep the conversation secret,
Oh! I so wanted to go throgh it.
What you had to do with them?, he questioned
They were mere papers, lying in dust.
I looked at him and replied, "The junk was mine, whatever it was, after all it was mine."
No words can explain, what that junk meant,
My heart sank, as the loss was irreplaceable,
Money can't buy memories, technology can't recycle.
Childhood memories meet a silent disaster.
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