Ashes to Ashes

‘Okay, okay, stop it and take a breather.’ He muttered and obedient to his order he shuffled out of the room, down the narrow staircase and into the kitchen. He held a chipped glass under the tap and filled it with water. He stood, looking at the drink in his hand as if he didn’t know what to do with it. What now? He put the glass on the draining board and gazed out at the overgrown garden. He’d was sure he’d put in it the cupboard in the spare bedroom. Well almost sure. But he’d rummaged through the drawers and hanging space at least four times and hadn’t found it. He moved to resume his search and stopped.

What was that saying? The definition of madness, doing the same thing again and again expecting a different result. Well, he would look again and this time he would find what he was looking for. He’d have to because, if it was missing how would he carry on?

It had to be there. He lived alone. No one ever visited so it hadn’t had been taken. How likely was it that a burglar had climbed up into the bedroom and run off with a tatty wooden box, of no great beauty or value?

The stairs creaked almost as much as his knees as he returned to his quest. Maybe he moved it. Could it be in one of the other rooms? Why had he left it so long before looking for it? Because he had no need and it was easier, safer, less painful to leave the box, leave the box where? He had a flash of memory, the carved cedar box wrapped in tissue and nestled between silk scarves, in the tall boy of the main bedroom.

He stood before the door and placed a hand spotted with age on the knob. He was torn between hoping the wood would have swollen and the hinges rusted and the drive to find his most sacred possession.

The door opened a crack, reminiscent of a teenager responding to an unwelcome visitor. Immediately the scent of her perfume hit him, awakening his senses. His nose, the taste of her skin, the softness of her arms, the sound of her laughter and he sank to the floor curling up in the foetal position that had become his second home.

John, forty years, three month and two days.

Elsa, forty years, five months and four days.

Kitty, forty years, five months and six days.

For over forty years he had lived with his family and his grief, loyal to their memory and now when he really needed them they had abandoned him to darkness, to purgatory.

If he couldn’t find Elsa, John and Kitty, his final wishes couldn’t be enforced. He’d directed that he was to be cremated and interned with the remains of his wife, son and daughter. The doctors said he had two months, maybe less so he needed the box and he’d find it. Even if it took the rest of his life.