Near yellowed photographs a tin urn stood
by Father's favorite chair,
we children guessed but never understood
why he had placed it there.
We still don't know. Did it commemorate
the things kept deep inside
-- a copper coin from 1948,
with a hairpin by its side?
For Father always gravely picked it up,
and sadly looked within,
and each New Year he'd slowly raise his cup
to the old urn made of tin.
He never told us why it touched him so,
nor why he'd softly cry,
he'd shake his head and gently tell us: No,
it's not polite to pry.
We know the photographs show ancestors
whose hold on us was brief,
while Father's urn, to his inheritors,
keeps the image of his grief.