The day began as each Saturday morning had for as long as I could remember. That is until I saw the box on the top shelf in my mother's closet. It wasn't seeing the box that caused the problem, but rather asking my mother about it that created the difficulties on that early weekend morning.
"Sit down, dear," she said when I raised the question about the box. Although not much bigger than a small child's shoe box and partially hidden, it was very much in evidence to a snoopy teenage girl.
Right then and there I should have declared an absolute lack of interest in it. But I didn't. Instead I smiled and waited to hear the lovely story my mother was about to tell me and to see the old pictures she'd show me. Waiting expectantly, I was convinced the box was also filled with beautiful old heirlooms that would each be fabulous stories in themselves.
"This box is full of history," she began hesitantly. "It's your history, dear." I had no problem with her words but an expression I could not read filled the hollows of her face and made her eyes dim with sadness. Based on the expression on my mother's face, it did not look like it was going to be a good story and I instantly regretted my curiosity about the box.
Slowly the uncomfortable feeling began to pervade my bones and circulate through my veins as I stared into my mother's forlorn face. Her eyes were the watery version of the lake at night with a full moon shining upon its glittering surface. "That's alright. I've got homework to do," I told her as I jumped up. Sixteen was too young to find out about anything that had put that kind of a look in my mother's normally radiant eyes; eyes that usually sparkled like a sunrise with the early morning sun.
"Sit down, Marsha." She emphasized her words slowly as if they had been wet mud dredged from the center of the earth. "Sit down, Marsha," she repeated as she sat heavily on the edge of her bed.
Those words again! It wasn't like she'd said, "Sit down dear and have some chocolate cake," or "Sit down dear, I have fifty dollars so you can buy yourself a new dress." Those were the words I would have rather heard but, "Sit down, dear," spoken in that stranger's voice, so unlike her own, suggested she was going to tell me something I didn't want to hear. Reluctantly I sat down, trying unsuccessfully not to look at the box. Perched as it was on the top shelf, it seemed to have grown in size while it sat there; its mystery compounding by each second that passed.
"There are things you should know," she whispered as she lowered her eyes. "Things I haven't told you before." A solitary tear crept slowly down her pale face.>p> 'Oh Gawd,' I thought. 'This is not starting out to be a wonderful conversation.' I mentally kicked myself for having mentioned the box. Words I shouldn't speak have a way of sneaking out of my mouth before I can stop them. "Think before you speak," my mother has always told me. I wished for once I had listened to her wise words but one never knows ahead of time which are the ones to listen to and which are the ones that can be safely ignored.
Looking up I saw her dark brown eyes fixed intently on my face. "I should have told you this a long time ago but I've put it off. The fault is mine, darling. Your father has been after me to do so long before now," she said. "I've been afraid. Oh Gawd," she said as she buried her face in her hands. And although she made no sound, I knew it would only be minutes before her tears would spill over the edges of her cupped hands like water in an overflowing basin.
'Afraid?' I wondered. 'My mother has never been afraid of anything. She is the woman who stood up against bullies when I was eight years old even though her knees were trembling. She is the one who confronted the neighbor when his son stole my bike and, although she hated to make a scene, she marched into the school and talked to the principal when I got a detention for something I didn't do. And she stood up in front of my class when she was petrified to do so and gave a talk about her work because I wanted her to do it for me.'
As I watched my mother trying to battle her fears, I knew without a doubt it wasn't something I wanted to hear. "Maybe you could tell me later, Mom," I stammered. "If you've waited this long, there's probably no hurry to do it now. I'm sure it can wait." I quickly jumped up and escaping to my own room, closed the door behind me with a dull thud.
My mother did not follow me. She must have agreed with my logic. I breathed a deep sigh of relief as I sunk down onto my bed. I never again mentioned the box on her shelf. Even a nosey stubborn teenage girl can occasionally learn a lesson or two.
* * * * * *
Over the years I had forgotten about the mystery surrounding the box in her closet and life went on pretty much ass usual as I grew into young adulthood. That is until my parents' death in a head-on automobile accident when I was twenty-one years old. ...
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