he'd seen it somewhere, damn it, somewhere...
Then he had it, from all those years ago. The girls' locker room, the hole in the wall, the broom closet. Sister Margaret. She'd had just this key hanging around her neck; he'd seen it clearly as she pinched his ear and got her own eyeful. For the few seconds she'd watched the two girls at play, she'd clutched this key inside a muscled fist, her lips moving soundlessly: this key, with the crossed hands forming the ring through which the simple loop of twine passed. There was no mistaking it.
As he looked at it now, he suddenly realized it wasn't a key after all. It had a tiny, was that a hinge along the shaft? He removed it from the box, dug with a fingernail at the little bolt or hinge or whatever it was. The "key" sprung open, revealing a narrow hollow chamber.
And rolled up inside the little tube was a tiny white cylinder of paper.
Showing posts with label The box. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The box. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
A Mystery, A History, A Recipe, A Key
a book.
An old photo book.
He opened it up, knowing it came from his mother. Knowing that whatever it was, it was his very own legacy.
And there, in all the pictures, was his mother.
Young, so young. A girl, even. He didn't remember seeing pictures of his mother as a girl, ever.
He wondered why. She seemed to be having such a lovely time. Running around a carnival with another young, beautiful girl. A crowd of girls, it seemed, but most specifically, just one. No, it wasn't a carnival. It was a circus.
He saw the other girl riding on the back of the horses. He saw his mother, amazingly, up in the air, on the high wire. It looked like she was dancing. And then he saw both of them together, their arms clasped and in them middle, a tiny girl, no taller than his arm, standing on their clasped arms. All three of them with the huge, innocent smiles that can only come with youth, with the hope and dreams that exist before the world comes crashing down.
Was it possible that his mother, before she met old Bill who ruined her life, had been a circus performer? It seemed impossible, but here was the evidence right here in front of him.
He turned to the last page, and pasted there, was a key.
He had seen it before. He didn't know where. It wasn't the key to this, his mother's old lock box... that was still stuck in the box in front of him. It wasn't the key to the house-- which he just remembered that idjit Randy still had. But he knew
An old photo book.
He opened it up, knowing it came from his mother. Knowing that whatever it was, it was his very own legacy.
And there, in all the pictures, was his mother.
Young, so young. A girl, even. He didn't remember seeing pictures of his mother as a girl, ever.
He wondered why. She seemed to be having such a lovely time. Running around a carnival with another young, beautiful girl. A crowd of girls, it seemed, but most specifically, just one. No, it wasn't a carnival. It was a circus.
He saw the other girl riding on the back of the horses. He saw his mother, amazingly, up in the air, on the high wire. It looked like she was dancing. And then he saw both of them together, their arms clasped and in them middle, a tiny girl, no taller than his arm, standing on their clasped arms. All three of them with the huge, innocent smiles that can only come with youth, with the hope and dreams that exist before the world comes crashing down.
Was it possible that his mother, before she met old Bill who ruined her life, had been a circus performer? It seemed impossible, but here was the evidence right here in front of him.
He turned to the last page, and pasted there, was a key.
He had seen it before. He didn't know where. It wasn't the key to this, his mother's old lock box... that was still stuck in the box in front of him. It wasn't the key to the house-- which he just remembered that idjit Randy still had. But he knew
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