Locket

The humidity feels more suffocating than usual as I wipe the dust off the can I found in an old, abandoned cupboard in an equally old and abandoned house. That’s a perfect description for just about everything nowadays. Old and abandoned. This place used to be nice. High ceilings with delicate light fixtures that no longer worked. Solid wood furniture that’s now covered in enough dust to fill the Sahara. It even had central air at one point going by the thermostat on the wall. That would have been nice. I’m so sick of being hot and sticky with sweat.

The label says stewed tomatoes and it takes me a minute to remember what these were supposed to taste like, not that these would be anywhere near it regardless. Giving it a shake, the sound of fluid lets me know there’s still hope it's edible so I tuck it away into my backpack and continue my search for anything that might be useful. Finishing my search of the kitchen I move on to the next room and enter a long hallway with floor to ceiling windows, most of the panes of glass broken or filthy, along one wall and photos of forgotten people along the other. Score.

There’s not a lot that I can enjoy about life since the Fall, but looking through other peoples memories is my favorite. Since books and films that haven't already been written or filmed are luxuries that are long gone, the imagination is the only source for fresh entertainment, and I have one of the best. Wiping the dust and grime off the picture closest to me, I see a stereotypical suburban family dressed in matching colors for a family portrait. A Christmas one if the reds and greens were any indication of the season. All smiles, but my inner trailer of the ‘Johnson’s’ lives starts to play in my head like a film reel at the drive in.

“Mom, I hate this dress!” the little girl in the front says, her pin straight blonde hair held away from her face by a headband with a perfectly matching bow. The sour look on her face was a familiar one as she was the epitome of being born with a silver spoon. “Why can’t I wear pants like Kenny?”

An exasperated mother would shut her eyes and adjust the diamond earrings her darling husband gave her after the last time she caught him with some 20 something bimbo to make his indiscretion go away and count back from 10 before smiling and answering her daughter.

“Because, sweetie, little ladies wear dresses and young men wear pants,” she’d say sweetly and then glare at her bastard husband when he does nothing after her answer starts a full on tantrum from the child.

Chuckling to myself I move onto the next picture and continue my own personal movie until I reach the door at the end of the hallway and enter what I assume is the master bedroom. Usually bedrooms hold nothing of value for me, but when the sunlight coming through the windows reflects off something on the bureau, I take the time to walk over and investigate. Even through the layer of dust, the silver of the half dollar sized heart shaped locket sitting there was like a star in the sky and intrigues me into picking it up.

It’s heavier than I expected, probably solid sterling, but my jewelry knowledge was minimal at best. I was just a kid when the Fall happened and the only jewelry I’d ever seen was the necklace and wedding ring my mother had never taken off. Fingering the ring that now hangs around my neck next to the pendant that was in my every memory of her, I take a moment to remember her and fight back the choking in my throat. The Fall had taken just about everything from me, but I still had her. Now that she’s gone too...

Shaking my head, forcing the memories and emotions away, I open the locket. It surprises me when I have to pull at the magnet that was still holding strong even after time had tried it’s best to weaken it. The perfectly preserved picture inside does something to me. It’s not the picture itself, the black and white picture of a woman from the 60’s or 70’s judging by the hairstyle and clothing. No, it’s not her, but the way that the world hadn’t gotten to it. Not a speck of dust, not a bit of grime, no fading... just perfection. In a world where anything and everything was altered by the aftermath of the Fall, it was so off putting and refreshing to see something that wasn’t.

With great care I remove the picture and set the locket down while I dig my own little piece of defiance out of my bag. Taking out a copy of The Iliad, the only book I risked the extra weight to carry, I open it and take out the plastic snack baggie that I keep tucked in the pages. Carefully unwrapping the only picture I had of my mother, a photo booth picture we had taken on our trip to Coney Island when I was 7, and fit it into the heart shaped locket. It doesn’t fit perfectly like the other picture had, but I can’t help the ghost of a smile as I shut the picture safely inside and slip the locket chain over my head so it hangs next to the rose pendant.

“Hey, are you done yet? It’s going to get dark soon,” Miles says from the doorway.

I don’t need to look at him to see the anxiety in the lines of his face, or the way he’s shifting from foot to foot, his man bun bouncing as he nervously keeps looking over his shoulder at the setting sun. Miles was a worry wart, but I guess that’s what made him the perfect travelling companion for me as I was often known to not worry enough.

Not bothering to answer him, I shut The Iliad and put it back into my backpack before turning and walking past him into the hallway. I hear him follow behind me as I make my way out of the big memorial to the ‘Johnsons’ and to the waiting Jeep wrangler. Don’t have to bother with the doors as there are none and hop into the passenger's seat. As Miles gets in the driver's seat and starts it up, taking off in the direction of the compound at a speed that matches the anxious tapping of his fingers on the steering wheel, I run mine over my new favorite possession, the memory of Coney Island playing in my mind on repeat.