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In the faint light of the attic, an
old man, tall and stooped, bent his great frame and
made his way to a stack of boxes that sat near one
of the little half-windows.
Brushing aside a wisp of cobwebs, he tilted the top
box toward the light and began to carefully lift out
one old photograph album after another. Eyes once
bright but now dim searched longingly for the source
that had
drawn him here.
It began with the fond recollection of the love of
his life, long gone, and somewhere in these albums
was a photo of her he hoped to rediscover.
Silent as a mouse, he patiently opened the
long-buried treasures and soon was lost in a sea of
memories. Although his world had not stopped
spinning when his wife left it, the past was more
alive in his heart than his
present aloneness.
Setting aside one of the dusty albums, he pulled
from the box what appeared to be a journal from his
grown son’s childhood. He could not recall ever
having seen it before, or that his son had ever kept
a journal.
Why did Elizabeth always save the children’s old
junk? he wondered, shaking his white head.
Opening the yellowed pages, he glanced over a short
entry, and his lips curved in an unconscious smile.
Even his eyes brightened as he read the words that
spoke clear and sweet to his soul.
It was the voice of the little boy who had grown up
far too fast in this very house, and whose voice had
grown fainter and fainter over the years. In the
utter silence of the attic, the words of a guileless
six-year-old worked their
magic and carried the old man back to a time almost
totally forgotten.
Entry after entry stirred a sentimental hunger in
his heart like the longing a gardener feels in the
winter for the fragrance of spring flowers. But it
was accompanied by the painful memory that his son’s
simple recollections of those days were far
different from his own. But how different?
Reminded that he had kept a daily journal of his
business activities over the years, he closed his
son’s journal and turned to leave, having forgotten
the cherished photo that originally triggered his
search.
Hunched over to keep from bumping his head on the
rafters, the old man stepped to the wooden stairway
and made his descent, then headed down a carpeted
stairway that led to the den.
Opening a glass cabinet door, he reached in and
pulled out an old business journal. Turning, he sat
down at his desk and placed the two journals beside
each other.
His was leather bound and engraved neatly with his
name in gold, while his son’s was tattered and the
name “Jimmy” had been nearly scuffed from its
surface. He ran a long skinny finger over the
letters, as though he could
restore what had been worn away with time and use.
As he opened his journal, the old man’s eyes fell
upon an inscription that stood out because it was so
brief in comparison to other days. In his own neat
handwriting were these words:
Wasted the whole day fishing with Jimmy. Didn’t
catch a thing.
With a deep sigh and a shaking hand, he took Jimmy’s
journal and found the boy’s entry for the same day,
June 4. Large scrawling letters pressed deeply in
the paper read:
Went fishing with my dad. Best day of my life.
You may have heard it before but it bears repeating.
Someone once said, “I’ve never known anyone who, on
their deathbed said…I wish I had spent more time at
the office.” Our Dash is a fleeting moment in time,
and what we do with it is up to us. The quote on the
Priorities print from Successories says it all:
“A hundred years from now it will not matter what my
bank account was, the sort of house I lived in, or
the kind of car I drove…but, the world may be
different because I was important in the life of a
child.” |
Bronwyn
Ritchie's
