BobWrites

Without a word they stood
Around the tiny table
On which it rested - a small bundle
Five inches square, and two inches high,
Wrapped in brown paper,
Bound round with string.

The four of them, without a word,
Stared, still and silent,
At the small treasure which
Had consumed their lives
The last six years and more.

Their leader, Jeff, without a word,
Reached into a pocket
And brought forth a knife -
To cut the cords - without a word.

His trembling hands severed the strings
As he thought how near disaster
They all had been so many times
As worldwide they tracked their treasure
Until they finally found
Themselves around this table,
Without a word.

Ellen’s eyes
Were pouring tears
As she recalled, without a word,
How Phil had saved her
When the glacier calved
And all the dogs and sled were lost.


And Phil now stared
At that bundle which had cost
Their time, their wealth,
Their youth and health.
His thoughts were of their wild ride
Down raging rapids on the upper Amazon.


And Harry thought, as so oft before
Of that mountain climb, when alone the four
Had braved the avalanche
And he had sworn
The bundle never would elude him.

What was this treasure
Now to be exposed?
Some golden artifact
Rich with gems?
Or perhaps some Rosetta stone
Which held the key to a past unknown?

Now Harry planned as you’d expect
To write the tale heroic.
To tell the world what they’d achieved
And then to bask in gold and glory.

Four minds, four souls,
All intent, without a word,
Upon the paper Jeff unbent
And then the sight they all beheld.
Beyond imagination.
It was

A cream cheese and jelly sandwich
With a slice of pickle.
They all turned
And left the room
Without a word - without a word.