I Never Knew
He walked stooped, his every step a tentative one, Ben swatted at the silky strands that grazed the back of his neck. In the five years since he'd last ventured into the attic, the dust and cobwebs had accumulated tenfold and he made a mental note to assign cleaning duties to his three sons.
Wooden trunks, each filled with memorable treasures, lined the north side of the room. Kneeling at the front of the attic, he studied the stacks of ledgers that represented years of lumbering, cattle ranching, and occasional endeavors in mining and milling. Jutting from between a crate of Adam's less-used college books and precious letters home, Ben saw the worn edge of a memory that pinched at his heart and drew him across the dusty rafters.
The metal corners of the trunk dragged and screeched as he slid the chest, opening the space to reveal the weathered rocker that had long ago lulled his youngest son to sleep.
"Marie." The whisper of her name fell at his feet in the dry, stale air, and he rocked the chair ever so slightly against the creaky floor. "Dodo, l'enfant do, l'enfant dormira bien vite . . . sleepy time, the young one sleeps, the baby will sleep very soon." Sorrow creased his brow and as he tenderly traced the chair's arm, longing deepened the furrows. He closed his eyes and sighed and slowly, the void lightened.
Ben shielded his eyes, fearful that the image would fade. "Marie, my love." The emotion carried on the words buckled his knees and he leaned heavily against the chair. His eyes drifted between the back rails and a small, square box lying atop a crate caught his attention. Ben smiled as he lifted the package from behind the chair, "Marie's old sewing chest."
The burgundy grosgrain easily gave way as Ben untied the ribbon. The lid, which Marie had painstakingly covered with floral organdy and tiny bows, had jammed over the years, and Ben was careful not to loosen the fabric as he raised the cover.
Expecting to find notions of needles, thread, and pins, Ben was taken aback as he removed the contents of the sewing box. One by one, he reverently laid the discolored pages across a nearby trunk. He rushed to the attic's only window and slid the shutter's latch, blinking rapidly as the western sun poured into the room.
As he walked back to the trunk, the images on the papers sprung to life and he shook his head and smiled. "I didn't know . . . After all these years."
The thud of footfall caught Ben's attention and he turned to see his youngest son standing at the entrance to the attic.
"Hop Sing says dinner's just about ready." Joe stepped forward, then hesitated. "Pa, you alright?"
Ben grasped the corner of one picture and held it for his son to see. "You drew this, son. It was your birthday gift to her that year: a picture of you, your brothers, and me."
Joe stepped alongside his father and stared at the drawing.
"She kept this," Ben swept his arm the length of the trunk, "and all of these . . . So long ago . . . And I never knew."