Not Junk

A dusty box reveals a forgotten sister and a childhood memory

“Alright! I said I would!”

Leaving behind my mother’s nagging, I stomp down the basement steps of my childhood home.

I shouldn’t be upset with her. Dad died just three weeks ago. She’s alone now and feeling lonelier by the day, as much as she tries to hide it.

That's why I'm still here two weeks after the funeral. I was supposed to go back to my place in the city, but one look at the brave face she was trying so hard to wear made me change my plans.

In between meetings and responding to email (thank goodness for remote work), I’ve been helping my mom go through each room in the house. She always accused my dad of being the pack rat, just like he accused her of being the one to throw away anything that was not furniture or a fixture.

“Two hours,” she calls down. “You can at least clean out those boxes on the far end. Those shelves are full of junk.”

“Okay! Okay!” Two hours until my next meeting. Mom’s far too interested in her own agenda to worry about snooping into mine. She’s got my schedule for the day written out in longhand on a notepad by the coffeemaker.

Sighing, I turn on the light. The basement used to be a place where Edward and I would play. It was out of sight of our parents, which meant we could do pretty much what we wanted as long as we didn’t blow anything up.

Now it’s become a collection of boxes, tools, and Dad’s projects. There is something for everyone down here now, far more than when we were kids. We would have loved this place even more had it been like that then.

I head over to the far end where she wants me to start. I’m pretty sure she’s prepared a schematic of what she wants where, but first I need to go through everything. I have my instructions: if it’s junk, throw it out. If I don’t recognize it and it looks like junk, throw it out. If I don’t recognize it and there’s a question, I’ll take it up to her to decide that it’s probably junk and will get tossed with the rest of the items.

This should not take long.

“Childhood treasures into the trash. Got it, Mom.” Maybe there’s a hint of sarcasm in my tone. Can she blame me?

There’s a box on the very top shelf that’s been pushed to the back. It’s not your standard cardboard box, more like one of those gift boxes Christmas sweaters used to come in. It’s covered in layers of dust and almost weightless. Clearly no one’s looked inside it in many years.

I’m even more puzzled when I open the top. Nestled in tissue paper are only three things. There’s a feather. When I pick it up and hold it to the light, it looks like it might be from a blue jay. There’s a shriveled red balloon. And a single green shoelace.

Suddenly, I'm six years old again.

Summer sunlight flashes across the backyard. A little girl runs laughing through the grass, a red balloon bobbing above her head. In my hand is the blue jay feather we found beneath the maple tree. Her untied green shoelace trails behind her as she chases me.

"Hey, Mom?" Coming upstairs, I set the box on the kitchen table. "Who was the little girl I used to play with?"

Her face crumples. “You remember Evelyn?”

I lower myself onto the nearest chair. All of the bravado she’s worn around her like armor since my dad died falls away. For the first time, I see her as she really is, and not through the eyes of her son.

She is tired. Grieving.

I touch her hand.

“Evelyn?”

She nods. “Your sister. Older by one year. Evelyn first, then you, then your brother Edward years later.”

Her eyes get a faraway look. “You were six the summer she…died.”

I blink back sudden tears as the memories rush forward.

“I used to dream about her. The red balloon, especially. That’s what I remembered when I opened the box downstairs.”

Mom gives me a watery smile. “We thought everything was going to be okay. The treatments were working. At least that’s what the doctors told us.” She heaves a sigh. “And then, it was back. The cancer. Out of nowhere. It shocked us to the core.”

More memories surface as she continues. Mom and Dad were gone a lot then, depending on our neighbors for help.

Mom sighs, then picks up the feather. “I’m glad you didn’t listen to me about all that stuff downstairs being junk. I really thought Cal got rid of these things long ago.”

Mom carefully folds the tissue paper back over the feather, the balloon, and the shoelace, tenderly replacing the lid.

This time, neither of us calls them junk.

***
833 words

Prompt: While decluttering the basement, your adult character opens a dusty box containing a blue jay feather, a deflated red balloon and a single green shoelace. These objects unlock a childhood memory for them.