Page 186

MEGYN
Despite all my efforts, I ended up with a day off.
June, the manager, turned down my request to pick up a shift, or even half a shift. “We’ve already got too many people behind the counter today as it is. You know I keep you in mind. It’s just not feasible today.”
I didn’t like having so much time to myself. Idle time meant an idle mind, which meant I usually ended up thinking about upsetting things.
Rain poured down in sheets outside, preventing me from going for a walk. I had no errands to do and wouldn’t have been comfortable driving in such heavy rain anyway. A quick survey of the TV channels bored me. A nap might have been nice. I never got enough sleep. When I tried, I couldn’t get comfortable, and rolled out of bed again after only fifteen minutes.
I had too much extra energy to expend.
Is there a project I can work on?
I went into my parents’ room to look through my supplies, but the idea of sitting down in one place for hours wasn’t appealing at all. My hobby workspace did give me an idea, though. It was cluttered, disorganized. Spring was long since past, but I could still do some cleaning.
I turned the television back on for some background noise and got to work, first tidying up my workspace. As I returned each item to its designated spot, my thoughts also started to declutter. I settled into the task, smiling a little. When I finished, I smiled even more, gazing with satisfaction upon the result of my efforts. I went around the rest of the room, straightening and tidying as I went, until I came to the closet.
Cleaning out the dusty closet could be my project for the day.
I opened the door. The sudden stirring of air disturbed the layer of thick dust that had grown over the contents like ivy spreading over an abandoned garden. Old clothes Dad had never worn hung on hooks, and dusty boxes lined the top shelf, and took up most of the floor space. I scrunched my nose up, combatting the tickle that settled deep in my nostrils. I lost the battle and sneezed, making the dust situation even worse.
Waving my hands, I backed off. Thick clumps of dust swirled in graceful ballerina-esque eddies, spiraling slowly to settle on the ground and boxes again.
I guess I’ve never had much of a reason to go to this closet. I can’t remembering opening this door… in my whole life, honestly.
My curiosity piqued, I went and grabbed a mask from the first-aid kit under the kitchen sink. I didn’t have a proper dust mask, so this would have to do. I also grabbed a roll of paper towels, a trash bag, and a dish towel, along with a bottle of all-purpose cleaner. I didn’t have a spray for dust, specifically. If anything in there was worth saving, I’d ask Maggie if she had a canister I could borrow.
Thus armed and feeling rather much like a hazardous waste worker on their way to a toxic spill, I returned to the closet and pulled out the first box. If I closed my eyes, I could imagine I was petting a cat, the dust was that fluffy.
I wiped off most of the dust with a paper towel and then pulled the flaps open. Multiple layers of thin plastic boxes filled the box right to the brim. They reminded me of DVD cases, though smaller. I pulled one out and checked the front. A very 70’s duo of men posed in front of a psychedelic background. Their overly-intense expressions hadn’t aged well.
“A cassette tape,” I said aloud. Further inspection confirmed the box held nothing else. Well, I could see why Dad hadn’t taken this with him. Were cassette players even a thing anymore? I felt like they had to be. Someone would enjoy that retro vibe.
Dad might not have wanted them before, but he might have interest now. I set the box aside, under the window, in what I would call the “Maybe” category. As in, maybe I wouldn’t trash it.
The next box held clothes. I set that aside, forming another category, the “Wait ‘Til Laters.” I’d get all the boxes sorted before diving into each object.
Next box, more clothes, tiny shirts and skirts with colorful animals and shapes on them. I smiled. Baby clothes. Hard to believe I used to fit into those little things.
The box after that was smaller than the others thus far. I peeled the tape off the flaps and opened it up. A heart-shaped piece of dark wood sat on top of the contents. I picked it up, felt ridges on the other side around a smooth plane of material. A picture frame.
I turned the picture over in my hand.
The photograph had that fuzziness to it that always seemed to plague the decades prior to the 2000s, and had faded considerably to little more than smears of sepia. Still, the captured moment in time was clear.
My dad, looking much younger, thinner, but with a worse haircut, had his arm wrapped around Mom. It was Mom as I’d never seen her before, not in any other of the rare photographs of her. She, too, was younger and thinner, and her eyes shone bright despite the fading of the picture. Her smile stretched from ear to ear, and Dad beamed, too.
My throat closed up a little. The parents I had never had a chance to know looked back at me, caught forever in that truly happy moment. I wondered when it had been taken, but there was no date.
How long after this picture until Mom got pregnant with me? How long did she have left to live?
My sinuses burning, I set the picture aside and picked up the next one. It was a framed image of Mom and Dad on their wedding day, serene and ethereal in their white and black attire. The next two pictures were of them individually.
The final showed an infant with dark hair and chubby cheeks. Me. I was swaddled in a knit purple blanket, the kind that had to be made by hand—at least, back in the day.
The bottom of the box was lumpy and purple. There could be no mistaking what it was. I pulled out the dusty old blanket from the picture and held it up. The stitching still held tight, even after so long.
“Mom made this for me,” I murmured. I stroked the soft blanket and hugged it against my body, laying my cheek on it. The tears that had been building since the first picture finally spilled over, tracking cold trails through the dust on my cheeks. Mom had spent hours working on this for me, making every stitch with love.