Seven Years

by , under Fiction Prompts, Sunday Photo Fiction

171-09-september-4th-2016

I had never been allowed in his garage.

None of us had, which might have been strange with anyone but him.

Aunt Nora said he’d been this way since his brother died, way back in the war.

Secretive.

Solitary.

The funeral was held despite the rain, since we are above all a practical family.

Aunt Nora came up to me as I was leaving and pressed a bunch of keys into my hand as she stood beneath my umbrella.

“You need to go through the garage,” she said.

Then, fishing in her black patent bag, produced an envelope from a local travel agent.

“I’m leaving for the islands.  Immediately. I bought an open ticket seven years ago and have been saving for this day.”

Her eyes had the old family fierceness, the same determination that had doomed five generations to the farm despite any plans to the contrary.

Now that he was gone, there was nobody left but me.

Aunt Nora was not asking.

 

Sunday Photo Fiction

  1. Sunday Fiction

    I wonder what secrets will be unearthed in the garage. Probably something mundane and nothing noteworthy. Alternatively, it could be experiments on aliens or men from the next town.

    Great story.

    Reply
  2. Mike Fuller Author

    Razor blades. Over a hundred of them. Serial killer? House painter (to scrape the widows of “holidays”)? Scrap metal dealer? No, my Child Bride’s Dad. When he passed we got “the keys” so to speak and the job of cleaning out the house and garage. A child of the depression, the razor blades were just one of the things he could just not bring himself to throw away. Rusted, bent and all dull, they appeared in every cabinet and drawer. Nails too, They were also rusty and bent and would have taken a lot of pounding on a hard surface to straighten out. But he also had some old pictures of his kids when they were little and squirming on his lap, smiles all around. That joy and love got passed on, just the razor blades and rusty nails were left behind.

    Thanks for stirring a fond memory.

    Reply
  3. Lynn Love

    Some people are mysteries their whole lives, rarely revealing themselves to anyone. A true poser, though with a slightly dark edge, with the Aunt running the moment the Uncle dies. What kind of marriage did they have, I wonder? Nicely enigmatic story

    Reply

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