I keep my fortunes in a little wooden box along with a plastic duck. The lid has a latch, but no lock; on the inside there is an odd indigo postage stamp. I'm not sure if it was a real stamp. Without looking at it, I can't remember what's on it. The box has become an heirloom though it has no great singular story. Like most things that once belonged to my family and have since come to me, they escaped their fate as a pile of ashes or succeeded their brethren lost to river rapids

Now they enjoy life as treasures in my home. If inanimate objects emulate what I project.

Their bellies filled with fortunes others easily forget