The Chest

An old man sits soberly at his desk, the wrinkles on his face showing the passing of time, the passing of memories, the passing of friends and family, the passing of love…

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“I’ll write you every day. I promise you, I will.” He holds her tighter to him as they give the final boarding call.

“You’d better. I’ll miss you so much.” She buries her face into his shirt, tears staining it as her hand grips him tightly.

“I’ll be back for Christmas. We’ll be married. If you’ll have me, we will.” He fought back his own tears.

She looked up through red, tear-stained eyes into his, so deep, so young, so blue, as full of life as his own. He looked back into hers of deep green, seeing the same youthfulness under a glaze of sadness. “We will. And I’ll go with you to Boston. We’ll be together...Forever...”

“We will.” He kissed her hard, his hands gripping her arms, trying to make the kiss last the long months until he would see her again. He didn’t want to go, he wanted to stay, but it was what his father wanted. He had to go. The trains whistle blew and the slow chug sped up, growing louder. He picked up his suitcase and ran to the train, jumping on just as it started to pull away. He ran down the center of the train as it moved faster and faster out of the station, his eyes fixed on her as the windows passed by, until he couldn’t keep up anymore.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

With shaky hands the man ties the thin red ribbon around a stack of yellowed papers, folded, torn and faded with the years that have passed. Just as shakily, he stands and walks to the middle of the room, where an old chest sits open. It's wood worn to a shine, its hinges darkened with age. Gently, he lays the package in the center and walks to a closet in another room.

“And do you, Robert, take this woman to be your wife?”

“I do.” He grips her hands tight.

“And do you, Marie, take this man to be your husband?”

He looks into her eyes, so full of happiness behind the tears of joy. His heart pauses as she takes a moment to answer, “I do.”

He doesn’t wait. He takes the final step to his bride and lifts her veil from her face. His arms wrap around her tight, as he spins her around, his lips pressed tight to hers as the clapping of those watching fades away, lost in their happiness.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The man walks back and places a faded photograph next to the pile of letters, and on top of that, a worn and yellowed veil, the edges fraying. Once again, he leaves, this time to a different room.

“Mr. Richards?”

“Yes?” He looks from his wife’s face for the first time in what seems like days, sweat dripping from her brow, her cheeks flushed, her hair a mess. And still she’s the most beautiful woman he’s laid eyes upon.

“Meet your son.” The doctor holds up the baby that is his, a high-pitched cry echoing in the small room, and now it is he who is squeezing tight his wife’s hand. He watches as his son is handed to a nurse, then brought back wrapped up warm in a soft blue blanket and laid upon his love’s breast. He gently presses his lips to her cheek, and then his. His eyes filled with silent tears that he promised himself he wouldn’t cry.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

A tear falls silently down his cheek as he sets another photograph in the chest. Then he carefully places a soft blue blanket, the edges tattered and a few places worn through, even a rip or two. He walks to the wall, and takes down a framed picture. The picture is recent, his son grown and standing tall next to his mother as she laughs at the small baby boy bouncing in her lap. Both of them sharing the same fun-loving grin and deep green eyes. He places the photo atop everything else in the chest, and slowly closes the lid, placing a kiss on its lid.

He walks back to the desk and finishes his letter, signing the bottom in elegant, exaggerated cursive. He folds it carefully and places it in the box, sliding the lid onto it. He places it on the desk mat and walks into another room.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Bobby? Are you okay?” A woman sits beside him on a couch, an old chest in front of them, and a gentle hand on his back.

“Daddy! Daddy! Look! This box has my name on it!” A young boy runs into the room, holding a small blue box.

The man swallows hard and picks up his son, “How do you know it’s not my name, huh?”

“Because it says Robby on it! And Grampa never called you Robby! He called me Robby!” The boy held up the box to examine it closer. “What do you think’s in it, Dad?”

“I don’t know, Son. I guess you’re just going to have to open it and see.” He looked at his wife, a look of sad curiosity..

“Hey! I wonder what this key is for…And look! A note!”

“Read it. What does it say?” His mother inquired as her son gripped the small key in his hand.

“It says...Dear Robby, I’m sorry to have to leave like this, but it’s the way life is. It always ends in death. I hope you have fond memories of the little time we shared; I wish it could’ve been more. Your father will hold on to this chest for you, he already knows what to do, even though he does not know what lies inside. The day you marry, he shall give it to you, but you will hold on to this key. I may not have much to give to you, but I can give you my life. One day, you will…will…Dad? What’s this word?”

With a smile, his father looked over at the paper, “Treasure.”

“Treasure?” He looks questioningly up at his dad, reassured when he nods. “One day, you will treasure it, just as I did. I’ll always be watching over you. Love, Grampa.”

They all look down at the chest in front of them. “I wonder what’s in it…”

“I guess we’ll just have to wait to find out, Son.”




Written for:

ID: 1196046   (Rated: E) Fyn's Fynominal Contest!  Closed for a spell as the characters melt in the mists of time..... by fyn-