Good morning one and all. I hope everyone had a fantastic weekend and is looking forward to a fun filled week. I personally had a nice and relaxing one and am ready to just jump into the morning prompt. And then into a big cup of coffee. But prompt first, caffeine pounding later. Ready then? Good. Let’s go.
Oh I like this one. I don’t know what I am going to do with it, but i am going to do something.
Monday, December 20th: It is on the third shelf to the left.
It is on the third shelf to the left. I can see it there. The box. It isn’t remarkable as far as boxes go. It is about the size of a shoe box, perhaps a little smaller. It is made of wood, I have never been able to determine what sort. It is stained dark. Over the dark stain is a layer of dust. The box has not been touched in years.
It was almost touched daily. For decades. Although I wasn’t supposed to know that. I watched her every day, my grandmother. She went into this back storage room often. Many useful and necessary things were stored here. Not only was this where the vacuum and all of the clean supplies lived, but the washing machine and dryer lived here. There were also shelves here that contained the overflow from the pantry. Grandmother believed in buying in bulk.
Here the large containers of food were stored. Smaller, more eye appealing vessels contained the items currently in use in the kitchen. Those smaller containers were brought back here to be refilled when their levels dropped low. Grandmother came into the room multiple times each day. Most of the times, she never gave the box a glance. She seemed to forget it was there. But every so often she would stop, stare at it and lift a hand as though thinking about touching it. Each time her hand would lift but stop sometimes only a hairs breadth away. But it would always stop before it connected.
Then her fingers would withdraw, the layer of dust on the box undisturbed as she continued on with her day. I thought about asking her about it, but the look on her face always stopped me from voicing any questions and even causing me to pretend I did not see her reach for the box at all.
There was such a look on her face at those times that it was painful to watch. The look was not the same each time. Sometimes she looked sad, other times angry. Often though when she reached for the box there was a bright longing etched into every line on her face. It turned the brief moment into something private. Something I was almost ashamed to have witnessed.
At such times, I always snuck away, pretending I was elsewhere and hadn’t known she went into the back room at all.
But she was gone now. The funeral was held earlier in the day. The last of the mourners gone, leaving behind a kitchen filled with well-intentioned meals. The day was exhausting and I was relieved to be away from the weight of other’s regard. It sat heavily on top of my own grief, weighing me down until I was surprised my steps did not leave imprints in the floorboards.
Now they were gone. My funeral wear was shed and I was back into comfortable clothes. I don’t know why I thought of the box or why once I changed out of my funeral wear it seemed to grab hold of my mind and not let go. Perhaps it was that now, everything was seen to. Everything was dealt with. The funeral and memorial services were done. The paperwork had gone through the lawyers and the shell that once held my grandmother was comfortably resting. But now that I was alone, all tasks complete. I could think of nothing but that box. I pulled on a pair of thick socks and silently padded through the house making my way to the back room. It was only as I approached the door that I realized I tiptoed as though sneaking into the storage.
Ten til Midnight 