Author: Silver_moon_beam a.k.a Katherine
Story Title: A Picture
Prompt number: 4
Word count: 1022
Rated: PG (Mentions some death, not gorey)
I pulled a grey steel box from beneath the bed in my grandmother's room one day. It looked like an old firebox, it was locked tight, and I had to wonder if the key was still around. I searched for the small key in her mirrored vanity and deeply stained wooden jewelry boxes to no avail. I checked her old wooden bedside table, and the chest of drawers. I had put everything back where it belonged, when my grandmother came in.
“What are you, doing Caleb?”
“Well,” I mumbled, deciding it would be best to tell the truth, “I was looking for the key that belongs to the firebox underneath your bed.”
Her usual gentle smile crawled back across her lined face. “That old thing? Why on earth would I keep it?”
“You still have the box though, Grandma.” I insisted, knowing she was hiding it from me.
“Of course I do, you underestimate your grandmother.” She gave a light laugh as she limped over to the bedside table, and pulled out one of the moldings, behind which was a small compartment. Inside this little hiding place I saw a hint of silver. I reached inside and pulled out a small key on a fine chain. The key shone brilliantly, as if it had been polished quite recently. I let it spin on the chain, throwing off shafts of light that danced across the room. She stared at it a moment as if not believing she was about to look at the contents of the box again.
She pulled the firebox back out from beneath the floral bedskirt, the metal grinding against the hardwood floor like stone. She took the key from my hands, a faint grin still traceable upon her lips. My eyes studied the plain grey-green with mild curiosity, as the key slipped inside and clicked open the box. I raised the lid with a trembling hand as grandmother place the key into her jean pocket. Of all the things I could have expected I'm not sure it would have been this.
The box seemed to go on forever, filled with pictures haphazardly thrown inside. I pulled out a few and laid them out on the ground. These were recent, full color photographs of my mother and father together. One, of a group of five children in pastel colors on the faded picture, seemed familiar, I figured it was my grandmother and her siblings. I pulled another from the box, it was worn and yellowed, but it revealed a man in his forties or early fifties. His jaw was set and his eyes were hard, but he gave off a much different aura. People say that you can tell how a person lives their lives and what their personality is by their eyes alone, I could tell that wasn't the case with this man. The greyscale photo didn't add to his allure by any means, I told myself.
“I haven't looked at these in so long.” Grandmother muttered to herself. Then she glanced at the snapshot in my hands and her eyes seemed to water. “This was my father.” She took the photo from my hands and caressed it in her own. “Three months before he died actually.” She set it down gently to file through another stack of pictures before finding a small pile of black and whites. “These were when he was in the hospital, he had a heart attack, eventually, his heartbeat became so irregular that it killed him, my strong Daddy. We had so hoped he would pull through.” I took the stack from her and flipped through them, most were photographs of him unconscious, in a blissful sleep, but in one picture he was awake... and smiling. His eyes glowed and he seemed to cast off any rays of doubt that he would ever die, but, checking the date on the photo, he died just the next day.
“This picture was right before he told us not to cry at his funeral, he knew that he was close to death, and he didn't want to make us sad. I agree, a funeral may be the end of one life, but it's still just part of the cycle. One life ends and another begins, somewhere in the world. I don't want anyone to be sad at my funeral, I want them all to know that I lived a good life, even through the bad times.”
I finished reading my eulogy at grandmother's funeral, all around me, people were smiling and crying, whether they were tears of joy I'll never really know. But I had to continue.
“Behind me, is a photograph of her, Marie Shaffer, as she was that day, she had reminded how a picture is worth a thousand words, or more. A picture can last forever, we can always see her smiling face in photographs, just as I saw her father's. This is greyscale, but should it be color? Does a greyscale really represent her? I think not.” He reached up, and with the help of his father, they removed the black and white to reveal a stunning full-color. Her skin was warm, a smile showing teeth that were slightly stained, but still almost perfect for her, she had a certain way to make thing look right.. She wore a rich green blouse that accented her strawberry blond hair and crystalline eyes well. “This photograph shows her delightful smile, her radiant features to pick you up when you are down. What do her eyes tell us about her? They glimmer hopefully, reminescent of days past, but not remorseful, not in the least. She was a great person, she lived her life to the fullest and she never regreted any of it, she never sought vengeance on anyone, she was always there to help you out, with a helping hand and a grin. She could always get you going, now she can't be there for us, but we're all here for her. Remember, she didn't want anyone to cry at her funeral. This is a celebration of life as much as it is of death!”
