I am just a piece of baggage, a valise well used and marred,
Showing evidence of service in a surface badly scarred.
But, I had my days of glory, though they’d be pooh-poohed by some,
When I was swept up for travel by some fingers and a thumb.
When my owners stuffed me shamelessly and sat upon my top,
They latched me, and those latches strained: it seemed I had to pop,
But, I never did, I’m proud to say, I never failed that trust,
Though my dear, departed owners have been returned to dust.
With dust, indeed, I’m intimate; my lock and latches thick
With rust and time’s corrosion that a burglar’d deign to pick.
But if you opened up my lid to take a sniff inside,
You’d still make out the faintest hint of clothes that used to ride
Within my tattered body, and whose cleanliness just shone,
As my owners both made ready for their yearly trek toward home.
Home to Nova Scotia, to the hayfields and the hill,
The farmhouse and the orchard, and the childhood sounds that thrill.
I was with them when they left it, left the sheltering arms of those
Within whose circle they had been since birth, and then arose
To follow foreign destinies, seek fortune’s fainter star:
And so they packed their lives in me. We journeyed long and far.
Then every year – for fifty years – we travelled back, went home.
And when she had to leave us, he went, all alone.
The road was kind to both of us; the fiftieth year was passed.
It took a while to know it, but that one was the last.
So, here I am, dear travelers, battered but still true;
I’m full of only memories…now they belong to you.
I helped to carry people home, where love and hearts are best;
My work is done, my journey o’er. And so, I take my rest.