A/N: I'm not totally in love with how this turned out, but it was an idea that I had while going through my parents things. So I wrote it down. Sad, but not.


Memorabilia

This story starts with the end. (Their end.)

They both die, eventually, of course. (Everyone dies eventually.) But that's not important.

Spencer goes first, his hand falling from Sam's as she watches with tear-stained cheeks. Sam goes two months later, holding his picture and a bowl of meatballs.

But that's not important either.

What's important is that he's 87 and she's 76, and this story really isn't all that sad. (Because they lived and loved for 50 years and left behind every bittersweet memory.

In their room, they leave sketches: several notebooks full of her eyes (and the occasional shaky drawing of his). There's a model of a fish in the corner of the room that their kids never really understood, but they knew it was named Sam, and they knew it was important.

In the living room, there's a pillow with a chocolate milk stain where Spencer exclaimed that "you can't feed Nesquik to a newborn!" and knocked the bottle out of her hands. At that, she had just glared and drank the bottle herself.

In the kitchen, pictures and drawings are left on the fridge. One drawing is their daughter's 2nd place piece from her middle school art show: the same one that Spencer had waved around in the air, proclaiming that she was his legacy.

By the stairs are pictures from their wedding: more often then not, Spencer wasn't even looking at the camera, but at Sam. Sam had complained about it, but her eyes and the smile that crept on her face gave away how she really felt.

Under her pillow is a bracelet. It's inscribed with a date and an inside joke.
"I'm sorry I ate all of your ham, I hope you still love me."

Their kids would never know it, but the lock on the front door is commemorative, too. When Sam was 20, Spencer replaced the chain lock with a deadbolt, making it impossible for Sam to break in (through the front door, at least). After that, she took to coming through his bedroom window.

Then again, maybe these things aren't important. Maybe they don't matter. They're just things. Things left behind, soon to be forgotten or thrown away.

But Sam and Spencer would have disagreed.


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