This is one of mine which I wrote several years ago. I am the owner of four boxes of memories and one day I was thinning out the contents and imagined someone doing it for the last time in their lives. That's how this story began.
A compilation of my short stories will be published in 2018 and the book will have the same title.
They were simple Banker’s boxes, bought flat, resurrected at your office type. They stood in a straight line in front of the closet, decked out with square brown lids. The significant red numbers on the top of each, from 1 to 4, made them look like toy blocks for an adult. In reality it held the most precious items, the bullion of his life. The contents were the dearest of everything he owned. They were his boxes of memories.
Along the cardboard’s center a blue faded ribbon was glued forming a silky embroidered spine. He held it in both hands, the long fingers reverent and protective. He held it to his heart and it emitted a vision so pure and sorrowing and sweetly joyful as could be possible. At that instant he knew with all certitude that this was the only memento he truly cherished, he experienced an intense awareness that the rest really didn’t matter. The memory the ribbon provoked schlepped the old man away. He leaned back on the sofa and remembered the day thirty years ago when Eugene came into his life.
beam startled the wee creature and it cried out in protest. Lloyd moved the light from the baby but kept the child in the penumbra.