POEM - The Thief Under the Sand Box

My earliest memory is a traumatic one

This must be what sustains it

What gives it permanence

It involves a prized possession

            And a horrific monster

When I was two we lived in Wymount Terrace

Married student housing at BYU

Known affectionately as the “Rabbit Hutches”

It was a fun for me

            There was a sand box and swing set

All down just two flights of stairs

I had just received a shaving kit

Brand new for my birthday

I could now join my dad in the morning

And knock down that stubble with ease

I had to use my dad’s shaving cream

But the razor was all mine

            Finest plastic blade available

A little dull, but it did the job

            Clean shave, no nicks ever

One day I took the whole thing down to the sand box

Set up shop

            Waited for customers

                        And played in the bright sand

I was daydreaming a little when I saw it

Out of the corner of my eye

            I saw the sand start to give way

Some black spindly legs started to emerge

And my beloved razor vanished

            Drawn down to the depths of the pit below

I was horrified and distraught

            It was then that my mother called

Rotten timing, but what could I do?

            I gathered the shambles of my kit

                        Ran up the stairs

                                    Explained every detail to my mother

All to incredulous looks and general disbelief

I can’t blame her, I barely believed it myself

Years later I came to terms with what happened

I was able to let it go . . . a little

Accompanied my wife to her class one day

A family studies class in the Cowden

They were discussing different psychologists

When one in particular was explained

My story suddenly made sense

This guy Piaget talked about being kidnapped

Oddly enough, when he was two

            But he wasn’t. He thought he was, but it was fake

It was a story, that had been told convincingly

Then he had filled in the blanks

            Made the whole thing real

I think my razor was probably the same thing

            I lost it in another way

Buried it in the sand and forgot where

            So, I made up the other story

                        Maybe to avoid getting in trouble

                        Maybe I wasn’t supposed to take the set out

Then my mind filled in intricate, horrible details

            Yeah, that’s got to be it

            That must be what happen

Still, I’m not going in that sandbox again

            And I never more take my razor outside