3. -
CHAPTER THREE
-
Two days later, on Thursday evening, we all met back at the house.
We had made a surprising amount of progress on packing up and sorting Memaw’s things.
The thought of getting rid of anything was nearly unbearable, but we knew that there were some things, like some of her clothes, that would be better served by being donated.
None of us would ever really use them. As I wandered from room to room, looking at the now barren walls, looking at the lines and lighter places in the paint, where pictures and her wall art had hung for years, I felt a profound sadness, especially when I considered repainting those walls, but I also felt a small, inexplicable optimism about the future, and looking towards a new beginning.
I also thought to myself how Rachel and I might start to physically make this place our own.
I made my way back to the kitchen, remembering all the meals that I’d shared with her, right here in this space, and had to wipe another tear away from my cheek. These would come often, I knew, and I was in no way embarrassed.
Then, I found myself at the door that led down into the basement.
It was odd; we never really spent much time downstairs.
We jokingly talked about turning it into a game room or something, since it had a fully finished concrete floor.
I decided to switch on the light and walk down the narrow stairs.
I made my way to the last stair and hit the switch.
The glow and familiar hum from the four overhead fluorescent lights came to life, and I suddenly realized that most likely, it had been more than a decade since these had even been turned on.
I stepped onto the solid floor, walked to the center of the room, and looked around, turning a full 360 degrees, thinking of all the possibilities this blank space holds, when I saw something I’d never paid attention to before in the very few times that I had been down here.
It was an old wooden trunk, placed neatly in the corner of the room under the steps.
I love old boxes, trunks, and containers.
They are like little hiding places out in the open, and this one was calling my name.
I moved closer to the trunk and laid my hand on the latch.
I could feel the vision rise in me, and I quickly gave in to the sensation.
All the background sounds of the basement vanished, and the lights dimmed for a solid count to five, and then slowly the light leveled off.
It was dimmer now, and the air was stale and earthy.
I looked around at this basement vision and realized many things had changed.
The floor was dirt, and there were only a couple of workbenches up against the far wall, some tools leaning against the door frame, and this trunk underneath the steps.
I didn’t take my hand off the trunk, but inside my vision, I looked down and saw that I was wearing thick-soled work boots and those thick navy-blue Dickie’s work pants that mechanics wear.
I had on an oversized heavy corduroy jacket and holey work gloves, and after a moment of processing, I was beginning to understand.
I took my hand from the trunk, and the vision faded.
I could still smell the dirt from the floor as I centered myself to keep the vision at bay, and then once more reached for the latch of the trunk and pulled it open.
Inside, I found the coat, work pants, gloves, and work boots, along with a locked fireproof box.
The key wasn’t with it, and because I am often too nosy for my own good, I picked up the box and held it in my hands for quite a while, but I wasn’t getting any visions or messages or anything.
It was not ‘speaking’ to me at all. That could only mean one thing.
This was my memaw’s box. She would be the only one in this whole house besides me who could wipe an imprint from an object.
Somehow, I’d have to figure out how and where to find the key.