Prompt #3: The Paring Knife

My eyes locked on the last dusty box in the attic with my name printed on a piece of packing tape. It was moving day and I had a new apartment all to myself waiting for me in the city. For the life of me I couldn’t remember bringing that box up into the attic, it was probably full of hand me down clothes or toys from my childhood that I had completely forgotten about. I pulled the box out and sliced open the tape with the box cutter.

 Immediately after opening the box, I recognized its contents; A teddy bear won for me at the town fair, a comfy old black sweatshirt folded neatly at the bottom, a scrapbook filled with pictures, movie tickets and little notes I had received long ago. It was the box I had tossed down the stairs and had assumed had been dropped off at the dump years ago. It seems my mother knew I would want it someday and packed it away in the attic instead. I pulled out the sweatshirt and held it to my face, trying to get a wif of the aroma that had faded and been replaced with a slightly musty scent long ago.

                Nevertheless, I pulled the sweatshirt over my head, remembering all of the lazy days I spent in it. I sat down on a stack of boxes and pulled the scrap book out and onto my lap. Sheepishly, I opened it up. It made a crackling noise, as if it weren’t meant to be opened ever again. The first page was full of pictures of the two of us goofing around; pictures of us with fake mustaches on and dorky glasses, pictures of the brownies we cooked and the mess we made in the process, pictures of us laughing and having fun at the arcade. It brought a slight smile to my face as I remembered back to those days of my youth.

                There were other pages with hand written notes and the receipt from our dinner on our anniversary. Even a page that displayed the neon orange parking ticket I got when we decided to go on a spontaneous trip into the city. Then there were the pictures from my prom; the image of him all dressed up handsomely in his suit brought me back. My eyes left the page and I immediately closed the book, stuffing it back into the box. I felt the color drain from my face as the blonde hair on my arm stood straight up, accompanied by a million little goose bumps.

                I pulled out the teddy bear and gave it a tight squeeze. It too had lost his scent. I closed my eyes and thought about the day I had worked so hard to try and forget. He was lying at the front of the room, encased in solid mahogany wood, his arms crossed at his chest. His face.. it didn’t look like him. Could it have been too much makeup or just the way they positioned it that was so unlike the way it fell naturally?  And his hair.. It was combed to the side and neatly flattened so that not a single strand was out of place. As many times as I had tried to calm the hair that fell so freely, I had never been successful. As I looked at it flat and without personality, I wondered why I ever tried to fix it in the first place.

                I hadn’t eaten in days and the smell of the funeral home, a mix of cleaning materials, air fresheners and flowers disturbed my stomach to the extent that I didn’t think I would build up an appetite for days longer. And I didn’t. It seemed as though everything was in a fog; time was passing by and things were happening but I didn’t want them to. I was talking to people who came to give their condolences but I couldn’t recall a word of the conversations. Had I even made conversation at all or was I just standing there looking as empty as I felt?

                The funeral directors daughter approached me. She was very tall and thin, the bones on her shoulders stood out even in the very concealing black dress she was wearing. Her dark hair was neatly pulled back into a pony tail. I imagined her entire wardrobe to be black and depressing. Was she so thin because the smell of this place took away her appetite as well? I believe I gave her half a smile, although my mind was still stuck on the idea that while this could potentially be the worst day of my life, it was a normal day at work for her.

                The girl pulled me into an office and sat me down. She explained to me that his family thought it would be a nice touch to have me give a reading at the funeral the next day. Before I could even agree she was handing me a thick white binder and telling me to choose a passage from the bible that I felt was appropriate to read. I simply nodded and gathered up the large binder, taking it with me back to my seat. I felt like I was under water, trying to function as if I were on land. I put down the book and walked to the front of the room. Tears welled up in my eyes and my palms began to sweat even though the thermostat must have been set below fifty in that room. My eyes set on the face of someone I had loved and lost and I tried to find the words I could silently share but there were none.

                Remembering this day made my heart heavy but somehow I found myself glad that I came across this box. I pulled out a black velvet case and opened it up. If only there had been sun in that dusty old attic to reflect off of my ring the way I had remembered it. I studied it for a brief moment, embracing all that it stood for and then laced it onto the silver chain around my neck. There was something about finding that box that made me realize that just because I’m moving on with life doesn’t mean I have to leave the past behind.