We're all stories in the end.
Just make it a good one, eh?
The Dr.
The death of young John was so traumatic that once the funeral was over Allie went into his room and stayed there until everything was taken down, boxed up and ready for the local charity shop. Everything, that is, except for a few items that were placed in a small box and the box lovingly carried to the attic. From that point on John was never mentioned in the house ever again. Of course the older kids remembered John, more so Jane and Jeff than Davie and Kate. Once warned the children never mentioned John except every now and again, amongst themselves, always in hushed voices, when there was heavy thunder and lightning outside and the rain pounding down as it was that fateful night.
Just before she went into the Creekside Extended Care Facility, Allie made her first and last pilgrimage in to the attic and the box she placed there so many years earlier. She picked up the box, shuffled over to a dusty chair and carefully sat down. Once settled she put the box on her lap. Allie sat there looking at the dusty box. She let her thoughts wander down avenues not visited in many a year. She could easily picture her John as a fine strapping man right along side his brothers. As Allie wandered the moisture in her eyes slowly found a path down her wrinkled face and onto the still unopened box. She slowly wiped away the dust the tears from the small blank lid, then reverently opened the box and removed the light blue tissue paper she placed there many years ago.
The small boy's shoes still had the dried mud on them. So small, so precious. The shorts with their grass stains and mud… the ones he wore that night. The t-shirt with mud, blood and a few bits of hair. Oh, how it all came back. That night, that sad night. How useless they all felt. Second to bottom of the box were the few photos of young John. Being the fifth child meant Noah and Allie were tired of taking photos of their children. The first child had the most photos and then it went rapidly downhill through the others. Number five had the least and dying so young meant John had only a few dozen photos to his name. Mostly in group setting.
Slowly Allie went through the photos, crying over each one: each precious one. Then she held them all close to her heart, still silently crying for her long lost son. She tried to avoid the recriminations of that night and just dwell on the good times they had with John in their family. She tried and failed just as she tried and failed so many other times. Now her whole body slowly rocked in sympathy with her silent cries of pain and anguish. Yet again she wished to go back and change the past… Life, as she kept reminding herself, is not fair. Then again, the good book never said life was going to be fair, only worth it. Then came the age old question, "Why her son? Why so young? What did he accomplish in such a short time?"Questions only a visit with the good Lord himself could answer.
Resting on the bottom was John's very first painting. Allie's thin fingers delicately removed the masterpiece that only the trained eye of a mother could see. That day John had so much fun finger painting for the very first time.
One of the blessings of Alzheimer's is the ability to forget. Allie wanted to forget that night so long ago when John died so young and so tragically.
After an eternity of sitting in the attic, Allie let out a long and plaintive sigh. She dried her eyes, then, lovingly, replaced the few items back on the box, replaced the tissue paper and closed the lid for the very last time. With profound reverence Allie held the small box of memories. Tears started to come again. They came and rolled down her cheeks splattering the top of the small box with more dark spots.
There are only so many tears that can be shed at one time. When Allie reached that point she closed her eyes real tight and could clearly see her small son looking out the back door as the storm fought its way in to their area. The one last glance at her son was Allie's last memory or seeing her son alive. And then the tears started again. Allie had to force herself to get up from the chair, walk over to the shelves and replace the box before retracing her heavy footsteps out of the attic.
The sorrow in Allie's heart was the sorrow only a mother who has lost a son knows.