Time Capsule

That we found it at all seemed a miracle,
though we were the ones who hid it here
in the ground behind the long-silent school
where we mostly hated each other.
That didn’t matter now, together
in the dark, afraid to be found digging
for things we’d thought safe to bury.
A foot urged the shovel down, then a crack
and a plastic box was lifted from the dirt,
the lid in pieces.
                                              Allison opened
the box and passed each item in a circle:
a stack of photos, which we studied
as if hoping to learn something new
about who we’d been. A pair of gym shorts,
a saint’s name embroidered red
on blue at the hem, still fit Eric who slid
them over his jeans. An 8th grade newspaper
promised we’d all be actors and brain surgeons.
Hidden inside a folded sheet of paper, a condom
drying in its wrapper.
                                              There was silence
when the box was empty. There was a swing set
still rusting around front, so we gathered there,
seats sunk nearly to the ground, the chains
sighing relentlessly. Was the shame
at having expected answers or at needing them
so soon? Across the lot, a used car dealership.
In the rows of windshields the full moon
became a village and burned.