Proof of Something

The dust came up like smoke,

when I pulled the box out. Old.

And there it was, the yearbook spoke,

in stories, badly told.

I flipped through pages, thin and pale,

the faces, young and keen.

Until your note, a blue ink trail,

Cut through the blur, serene.

'Don't let them make you small,' you wrote.

A smudge, a lopsided star.

Just seven words, by memory rote,

From what you thought I are.

It sits now, on the kitchen table,

That faded truth, held fast.

Like proof. That I am able.

And maybe, built to last.