The following poem is inspired by the Hope chest I received as a birthday gift for my eighteenth birthday. For those of you who do not know what a hope chest is, well it's a larger wooden box that girls keep things they want to have when they get married and have a house of their own. This is typically seen primarily in the South. Hope chests can either be passed down from generations, bought, or built. Some things you may find in a hope chest are: linens, dishes, curtains, table clothes, bathroom stuff, kitchen stuff, quilts and blankets, etc. My particular hope chest was bought and assembled by my dad. Mine consists of mainly dishes and cook books. Girls either collect things on their own, or receive gifts to put in the hope chest from other family members and loved ones who typically say things like, "I didn't know I would need this until this happened . . ." Hope chests are a great way for young ladies to prepare for their future home whether they intend to be married or not.

My Dear Hope Chest

I am sixteen

and you are just a box

the Hope is not yet there,

there is only a promise.

You were built by sturdy hands,

but he sees a different promise:

not one of Hope for love and joy

but one of a loneliness I did not yet understand.

You kept warm with my blankets

and gained the knowledge of my books,

but that’s not what you wanted

that wasn’t the Hope you intended.

As the years go by,

I understand what we are Hoping for,

so I give you my treasures: silverware and china

to keep safely locked away.

You've done your job well

and the lack of space shows it.

With every passing year I wait,

eager to have your purpose fulfilled.

And now my dear box,

the time has come

to open you up and make your Hope

My Reality.

When I wrote this poem, I was actually sitting in a poetry workshop. Generally I am not a very poetic person, but the woman leading the session was very specific about what she wanted, which makes writing poetry much easier for me personally. We were given the task of writing down five objects that are sentimental to us. Clearly, mine is the hope chest that my dad built me. Then we were told to address the object as if it were a living being. I'm not entirely sure if I captured everything the instructor wanted us to in my poem, but this is the best I could do.