In
the faint light of the attic, an old man, tall and stooped, bent his
great frame and made his way to a stack of boxes that sat near one of
the little half-windows.
Brushing aside a wisp of
cobwebs, he tilted the top box toward the light and began to carefully
lift out one old photograph album after another.
Eyes once bright but now dim
searched longingly for the source that had drawn him here.
It began with the fond
recollection of the love of his life, long gone, and somewhere in these
albums was a photo of her he hoped to rediscover. Silent as a mouse, he
patiently opened the long buried treasures and soon was lost in a sea of
memories. Although his world had not stopped spinning when his wife
left it, the past was more alive in his heart than his present
aloneness.
|
|
|
|
Setting
aside one of the dusty albums, he pulled from the box what appeared to
be a journal from his grown son's childhood. He could not recall ever
having seen it before, or that his son had ever kept a journal. Why did Elizabeth always save the children's old junk? he wondered, shaking his white head.
Opening the yellowed pages, he glanced
over a short reading, and his lips curved in an unconscious smile. Even
his eyes brightened as he read the words that spoke clear and sweet to
his soul. It was the voice of the little boy who had grown up far too
fast in this very house, and whose voice had grown fainter and fainter
over the years. In the utter silence of the attic, the words of a
guileless six-year-old worked their magic and carried the old man back
to a time almost totally forgotten.
Entry after entry stirred a sentimental
hunger in his heart like the longing a gardener feels in the winter for
the fragrance of spring flowers. But it was accompanied by the painful
memory that his son's simple recollections of those days were far
different from his own. But how different?
Reminded that he had kept a daily
journal of his business activities over the years, he closed his son's
journal and turned to leave, having forgotten the cherished photo that
originally triggered his search. Hunched over to keep from bumping his
head on the rafters, the old man stepped to the wooden stairway and made
his descent, then headed down a carpeted stairway that led to the den.
Opening a glass cabinet door, he reached
in and pulled out an old business journal. Turning, he sat down at his
desk and placed the two journals beside each other. His was
leather-bound and engraved neatly with his name in gold, while his son's
was tattered and the name "Jimmy" had been nearly scuffed from its
surface. He ran a long skinny finger over the letters, as though he
could restore what had been worn away with time and use.
As he opened his journal, the old man's
eyes fell upon an inscription that stood out because it was so brief in
comparison to other days. In his own neat handwriting were these words: |
| Wasted the whole day fishing with Jimmy. Didn't catch a thing. |
| With
a deep sigh and a shaking hand, he took Jimmy's journal and found the
boy's entry for the same day, June 4. Large scrawling letters, pressed
deeply into the paper, read: |
| Went fishing with my Dad. Best day of my life. |
|
No comments:
Post a Comment