The Box in the Attic

The box was at the back of the attic, under a broken lamp. I knew what was inside before I opened it. Photographs. Hundreds of them, loose and brown at the edges.

There is one of me at maybe seven years old, standing in the garden in shorts. We used to have a garden then, a real one, with an apple tree. My dad would spend every Sunday out there, pulling weeds and talking to the plants. I used to think that was strange. Now I understand it.

There is one of our neighbour, Mr. Patel, holding a cricket bat. He used to come over on summer evenings, and we would play in the street until it was too dark to see the ball. I had forgotten his face completely. The photograph gave it back to me.

I sat on the cold floor for a long time, turning the pages of an old album. I used to want to be older. I used to wish the slow days would go faster. Now I would give anything for one more of them.

I put the box back where I found it. Some things you do not throw away.