He had no treasure, only this;
mostly keys that did not fit,
and broken tools, a wrench,
a twisted knife, a watch
with an erratic tick.
He had a leaking battery
seeping insidiously
into joints and moving parts.
So many brown medicine bottles in his name
‘Mr John Stewart’. A battered old
tobacco tin was rattling round in there,
smothered in grease and rust.
He kept inside; a burnt out fuse,
the feathered flights for departed darts,
seventy years of football pools
coupons, punched tickets and a knave of hearts.
(c) Kiera Docherty
My Grandfather’s Chest was published in New Writing Scotland 30 (2012)
Kiera Docherty 
this is lovely keira. saw it today, the 2nd of december. my grandfather died dec. 1 1994. 20 years gone in a blink.
i remember the garage. the million plus objects he had tucked away through the years in coffee cans, little boxes, jars and such; just things that seemed to have little value. still when the time came to sell the house his sons (my dad and uncle) hardly knew what to do with it all. all those little objects painted a picture of the man.
Thank you, and thanks for your touching personal response. It’s universal isn’t it? the things that get left behind. Every item squirreled away represents a moment, every picture hook, matchbook and ticket stub, they are the tips of countless icebergs. Their tiny size gives scale to a life.