A Rainy Day...

I had seen the box often. When we visited, it would be in the den, on the desk, near the fire. Or, when we visited, it would be on the kitchen table, slightly ajar, forgotten, until a meal would require it to leave. Or, when we visited, it would be in the sunroom, on the end table, near the window, forgotten once again, until a visitor would sit too near. Then, it would leave again.

Today, as I visited, having been notified of his passing, I saw the box again. In the den, on the desk, near the fire. A fire that felt so warm as the rain outside was that cold rain that leaves your bones yearning for warmth. I left it there. We had a meeting to attend.

The lawyer read the will. I have never understood this ritual. The reading of the will. A life reduced to a document, read by a paid employee, to a group of people seldom together in one room. One last moment of control, of life, of meaning for the deceased. Perhaps. Or, more likely, one more moment of sadistic joy for the lawyer as he watches the faces of the benefactors as they receive more or less than expected. Today, I received more but less. Today, I received the box and a journal. The box. The little black notebook. .

The journal was weathered, but new to me. I wondered where it had lived apart from the box as it was so tied to the box as I read.

Twenty thousand dollars. It is unclear where the money that was in the box had come from, although, if I read carefully, it seems it might have come to my grandfather in the same way it was coming to me now. In a box, this box, at the reading of the will. But, I couldn’t be sure. The journal began with my grandfather receiving the box and a journal that was now lost - at least to me.

Over the years, there were entries about what to do with the money. Dreams, pragmatisms, and fear. Perhaps, it would be wonderful to spend the money and travel the world. There certainly was enough for that. Or, should it be given to charity as it hadn’t been earned by my grandfather, but what charity? Or, keep it for that rainy day. The day when illness might lead to debt. The day when a family member would come asking for help. The day when….

Other entries would explore the origins of the money and the previous journal, the one I’ll never get to read. Was the money the result of a crime? That would explain why it was never placed in a bank. Was the money found somewhere and never claimed? That would explain why it was never spent. Was the money given to the previous owner by a long lost love? That would explain the intricate designs on the box - designs that indicate care.

I wonder if anyone notices the box when they visit. It seems to live the same life it lived before, Sometimes it is on my desk, sometimes on the kitchen table, sometimes in the sunroom. But, it always leaves when a meal comes or someone sits to close. It changes owners, but it doesn’t seem to abandon its ways of being.

But here it sits, in my den, on my desk, near my fire, with my newly purchased black journal. When I think about the box, I think about my grandfather. When I think about spending the money on travel, charity, or family, I think about my grandfather. I close the lid. I store it away again for that rainy day…..

I keep it. I keep my grandfather. I keep his memory. I’ll save it for a rainy day.