Written by Annette Foster
Smashwords Edition, Sylverstar Productions
Copywrite 2012 Annette Foster
The trunk arrived on a bright, sunny afternoon in mid summer. It took two big men to lift it from the back of the plain, somewhat dirty moving van and bring it up the path. They had to muscle it through the entrance of my grandmother's house as if it had a mind of it’s own. Although they refused to carry it any further then the parlor, I was amazed when grandma paid the full twenty-five dollars for delivery.
In my memory I can picture the whole scene as if it had just happened. I was only fifteen then and full of young, hot blooded curiosity of course. Regardless of all my pleas, grandma refused to open it. She only mumbled something softly about having it moved upstairs to be stored away in the attic where it belonged. I hardly noticed when she quietly left the room, as I was preoccupied with my examination of the stickers and tags that covered the outside. I walked all around reading the different shipping labels very carefully. Truly, it had been everywhere or so it seemed by its trappings. From Baghdad to Pompeii, England to Little Rock Arkansas and a hundred places I had never heard of in my life, shown on the map of the world which lay before me stamped, glued or affixed by one means or another to its outer hull.
"Ellie, come help me in the kitchen now." Grandma called from the next room. Literally pulling myself away reluctantly, I left the parlor.
The deep, pungent smell of rose pedals drying on a screen rack in the far corner filled the kitchen with their lingering sweet memory of spring. Grandma stood by the hot stove stirring the contents of a large iron pot, slowly. She was humming softly to herself.