Passing the Torch
Short Story by G. Lynn Brown
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“Rob, who is this a picture of?”
Rob looked up from the old trunk and the musty clothing and incomplete board games he rummaged through.
“Lemme see.” He took the tarnished locket from Sally’s dust-smudged fingers. “That’s Dad.”
“Your dad? He’s so young...and handsome.”
Rob handed back the trinket. “Mom thought so, too.” He laughed and continued sifting through mothballs and game pieces.
“There’s so much stuff up here.” Sally slipped the necklace into her pocket. “We should make piles. One for keeping, one for a yard sale, and another for trash.” She picked up a cracked flower pot and tossed it to the side.
“Oh, my gosh!” Rob stood, a rusted toolbox in his clutch. “Dad’s old tools. Mom said she gave these to Uncle Jerry.” He closed the trunk, placed the metal box on top and flipped open its lid. “Dad’s old socket set with half the sockets missing.” He laughed. “I don’t know how he kept losing them, but every time he did, he cussed about it for a week.” He turned in a circle. “Where’s the keep pile?”
Sally shrugged. “We haven’t started one yet.”
Rob placed the toolbox beneath the attic window, next to a rocking horse. “There, now we have.”
“Oh, this is beautiful.”
Rob turned. “I remember Mom got that on a trip we took to the Grand Canyon.”
“I love it!” Sally marveled at the flowers stamped into the flap of the tan leather pocketbook, and she opened it. “Rob, look.” She pulled out dozens of wallet-sized photos, Rob’s baby and school pictures. “Look how cute you were.”
“How cute I was?”
Sally giggled and leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “You’re still adorable!” She held up a picture of a newborn Rob. “I want my baby to look just like you.”
“My rockets!” Rob hurried past Sally to a dim, cobwebbed corner of the attic and a large cardboard box with three nosecones sticking past the rim. “I haven’t seen these since I stuck them up here fifteen years ago.” He pulled one of the models from the box. “Ain’t she a beaut?”
Sally sighed and shook her head. “If you say so.”
Rob dragged the box of rockets to the window, a small cloud of dust trailed after him. He glanced around for any more bits of himself lost to cobwebs and time, but all he saw were stacks of dusty tubs and overstuffed boxes. “I can’t believe they kept all this stuff.” He stepped toward Sally. “And I can’t believe they’re both gone now.”
Sally put her arm around him and rested her head against his chest. He held her close and kissed the top of her head.
“And to think, one day, it’ll be our kids up here sorting through what’s left of us.” He rubbed her belly, she covered his hand with hers. The baby kicked.
G. Lynn Brown is a poetry editor and published writer, and poet. Her work has been featured in several literary journals, including Spillwords, Fictionette, Friday Flash Fiction, and others. G. Lynn resides near Cookeville, Tn.