As we ventured into the attic again the dust of remembrance filled my lungs with the bittersweet fragrance of our lives. Pulling open the old dresser I knew they would still be there... those tiny little brown and white oxfords that each of our boys wore as babes... never bronzed as others would have done... but still almost alive with their presence. Holding them to my cheek I could still smell the powder on their tiny newborn feet...
There's nothing else left of him, only those tiny little shoes which all the others wore as well. He was here too, a part of us, for so short a time, different, fragile, loving and so loved... and then gone. Why is there nothing else left?
There in the corner was the bowling ball box where she sat as I pushed the shutter button and listened to the whirr of the Polaroid pushing the new print into my hand... a lifetime ago. I could hardly see the box for the clutter all around it, tiny crutches and leg braces long outgrown, piles of dusty stuffed animals lonely in their exile. That box had held something solid once, and round, and nearly unbreakable. Then it held her, soft, flexible, and fragile, already broken. She was smiling of course. She knew how to smile no matter what.
As I turned, I tripped and nearly fell into your arms, but caught myself before I had to feel your touch.
A bit of color caught my eye and his notebook fell into my hands from off the shelf above. He would be noticed too it seemed. He was the first after all. Pages tumbled out, pencil art, and ink, every kind of dinosaur known to man. Some were smudged, yet some were brilliant in their detail and so alive! Where had this talent gone when his polymorphic life drew him away? Does he ever pick up pen and ink today?
But there was another talent too, one which no one knew for many years. The last, but not the least, also played with pencil art, and lovely superhero ladies danced for him in graceful poses flying through the air. But his talent also seemed to wilt beneath the strain of life's complexities, the twisting and turning of the path, the desire to be the supportive son and brother, and the surprise at the weight of that burden. The joy and delight he found playing with those little matchbox cars that went skittering across this dusty floor, unearthed by our shuffling feet, his sparkling eyes, his rippling laughter, the smile that melted my heart so many times... Where are they now? Have you seen his face lately?
Your back is turned and always seemed to be so... Do you not see how I needed you? You never could see... Or, is it that I didn't see you... your needs... the pain that life had inflicted on you as well as I... I guess when the pain becomes too much to bear we're blinded to what's right before our eyes... or just refuse to see. I guess it doesn't matter now... The dust has settled.
