The Invitation Card

A scrap of yellowed cardboard carefully preserved
Tucked inside a wooden box specially reserved
For sentimental treasures, neatly packed with care
Some photographs, a menu card a curl of baby hair
Here a smoothly rounded pebble, and two dainty fluted shells
And this party invitation embossed with tiny bells
A pretty floral serviette placed with in the fold
A scoop of rustling taffeta, and of palest gold
A hair ribbon of satin fastened with a bow
It struck a vague familiar chord, I felt I ought to know
The original of souvenirs treasured through the years
Then suddenly I remembered as the mists of memory cleared
Days of wild excitement how could that memory fade
When no one ever had a dress like the one my mother made.
Memories came flooding back, and I was young once more
And the other contents of the box fell unheeded to the floor.

by Irene Hustwait

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