Black Bubbles

The Tin Box

"Hello, Grandma." Lucy knelt down in front of the fresh grave, unafraid the loosely packed dirt might stain her khaki slacks. Her shoulders drew closer to her body as she fought off the chill that ignored her bulky knit sweater.

Alone in the graveyard, Lucy took a deep breath, blinked away tears and sat back on folded legs. She clutched a crumpled lunch bag in her left hand. With her right, she leaned forward and brushed invisible dust from the front of the monument, allowing her fingertips to trace the engraved letters.

"Has it really been a month already?" Her hand hovered over the final date on the marble. She wondered what condition her grandma's body would be in now, but the remnants of an irrational childhood fear—that the dead can hear your thoughts—shook the notion from her head. Instead she turned her attention to the brown sack still clutched in her fist, her knuckles white with sadness and anxiety. She released her grip and felt the blood flow back into her fingers. Lucy placed the bag on the ground and fiddled with the top of it, rolling and straightening the paper, pinching creases into the folds.

"I've brought you something, Grandma." She opened the bag and looked inside.

In the waning light of day, shadows invaded the cemetery. A large pine, several rows over, cast its mark along the ground and reached for her. The shapes of nearby statues bled across the grass, distorting as they stretched. Taller markers grew longer still as their inky mirror images oozed past the plot lines. And inside the bag, the shadows swallowed all but the tiniest bit of light. That light glinted from its contents, rejecting the darkness around it.

Lucy sighed a held breath, reached into the bag, and pulled her hand back out with memories. And secrets.

"We found this while cleaning out your house." She addressed the headstone in front of her and paused, as if expecting a response. None came. She shoved the bag under her knee to keep it from floating off on a breeze and held the contents with both hands. Unsure if she should look at her hands or her grandparents' marker, she chose the ground between. "I thought you'd want it back"

Lucy's hands held a small tin box. About the size of a cigar box, age and use had battered the undecorated silver rectangle along the edges and corners. Its hinges still worked, though they were marked by corrosion and discolor. Well worn but still legible, the front was stamped 1909 on the lower right corner. The contents far outweighed the slender tin itself. Lucy's hands trembled and she placed the box on the ground where she'd been staring.

"We didn't mean to pry." She chewed at her lip, looking for the words that wouldn't be heard, but needed to be said. "We looked inside." Her voice faded, cracking with uncertainty as her mind raced back to Thursday afternoon with her brothers and sister.

After the funeral, the gathered family scattered, returning to their lives to deal with their grief in familiar settings. Lucy's aunts and uncles had all moved out of state over the years, and neither they nor their grown children could take the time necessary to go through Lucy's grandma's effects. They'd helped bury the dead but left before dealing with the material life left behind.

Lucy's parents weren't up to the task either, her mother drinking to ease the pain, and father sitting silently in front of the television—unsure what to say, or how to act. He'd never been very good at emotional situations, but he failed miserably in his attempts to soothe anyone during this crisis, especially his wife. The task went ignored while everyone waited for someone to volunteer to shove the reality of her grandma's death into a closet and lock it away. Eventually, Lucy's brother Ted suggested they do it. They could pack up Grandma's belongings and reminisce, reconnecting with each other—after all, they'd spent their childhoods in and out of that house every chance they got. So the task fell to Lucy and her siblings, but they didn't mind, and in a sense looked forward to one last time in their grandparents' house.