By: Garance Borrut
My name is Wisteria. I’m fourteen years old and currently grieving. My grandmother, Lucille, passed away two weeks ago. I know that’s not a long time, and I know that we’ve been apart longer than that, but knowing that she’s gone forever is hard. I love my grandmother with all my heart. She’s the one who acted like a mother after my mother died in a car crash nearly seven years ago, the 17th of April 2018. She’s the one who taught me everything I know about the forest in her backyard – she lives on a huge property, a full three acres of woodland, and the big home we live in.
My father has always been away. He loved my mother very much, and soon after her death, he went on more and more business trips. They were longer, they were more frequent, and he just was never there. Never at home. My grandmother had her own property, which she shared with my aunt, my mom’s twin sister. My dad and I lived in another house, a smaller, cozy place, in a quaint neighborhood. When my dad went on business trips, I’d go to my grandma’s house, or my grandma would come to babysit me. Sometimes it would be my aunt, who had no children of her own, who would care for me. But it was mostly me and my grandmother.
I love my grandma. She was – still is, in my heart – the best person I know. Kind and gentle, and everything I needed every step of the way. I loved her, and now – now she’s gone. My dad loved her too, that’s something I know. He has decided that we’re keeping the three acre property. We’re selling the house. He’s on a business trip again, so it’s my job to pack up the stuff in the attic. That’s mom’s old stuff, and maybe a bit of grandma’s. Dad just doesn’t want to take care of anything that could remind him of mom, because he’s a weak, pathetic excuse for a husband, a pathetic excuse for a father. I hate that he’s always gone, and even now, when I need him the most, he’s not here.
But fine – fine! I’ll do it. I’ll clean out and pack mom’s old stuff. If I don't, dad will leave it here. He’s like that. I climb up the stairs into the attic. There are so many things up here, boxes and shelves full of things. A row of diaries, one for each year. My mother’s. A stack of letters – holiday cards that my dad couldn’t bear to see, cards that were for my mother. My mom’s vanity, the one that I wanted when dad said we couldn’t afford a vanity for me. He said he couldn’t bear to see it anymore, but didn’t want to throw it away. I pleaded and pleaded, but he always said no. I look at it now, wondering what’s inside the drawers.
Curiosity killed the cat. Maybe I shouldn’t open the drawers. What a lot of people don’t know, though, is that there’s more to that proverb. "Curiosity killed the cat" may be the first part, but the second is, "but satisfaction brought it back." So I will look.
I open the first drawer. Dust.
I open the second drawer. Nail polish, so many little bottles. They’re probably too old to use now. What a shame.
I open the third drawer. Powders and blush and concealer, things like that. Most are spent, used already. There isn’t much of anything left. I wonder why? Surely, my mom would’ve bought new ones? Maybe not. I didn’t know her, not really.
I open the fourth drawer. Brushes. For applying makeup. Many look kind of fancy.
This drawer is the same as the others from the outside, but the drawer looks smaller than others when opened. I wonder why? That’s really odd. It doesn’t seem heavier. I knock on the bottom of the drawer. It sounds hollow. Could it be a false bottom? Like the ones in stories, the detective stories. I take the brushes. I try to find a way to open the secret compartment. I fail, again and again, and then I see it. This drawer has a keyhole, like the others. But it’s more ornamental than the others. And at the bottom, I see it; a tiny keyhole underneath the regular one. For a tiny key. Where’s the key, though?
I think for a long time, and then I have an idea; could it be in the brushes? I take the ornamental ones. One of them seems to match the style of the ornamental keyhole. I try to find a key in it, and then, in the wire that surrounds the handle of the brush, I find it. A small part of the wire has an end of it on a small hinge. The piece of wire can be taken off partially and used as a key. I try that, inserting it into the keyhole, and it works! The bottom of the drawer collapses, onto… a stack of papers?
I pick them up. Each one has a date - and they’re old. The earliest ones are from 1998. The most recent ones are from 2004. What could they be? I start reading. Then I realize - these are love letters! From Bruce, my father, to Alara, my mother. My mom’s letters aren’t among these, but this is enough. I sit down and begin to read.
So many words. Words of love. Words. Love. Letters. Memories.
“My dear Alara, I wish I could see your beautiful face once more before I leave. Alas, I’m leaving for the airport tomorrow. You’ll receive this letter too late, anyway.”
“My dearest Alara, I love you with all my heart. Stay strong. I am coming back. I will be back.”
“Alara dear, I will bring you far, far away. As far from them as you want. We’ll go to the moon if that is your wish.”
Snippets of a life that I’ve never known. A life I’ve never heard about. I knew Grandpa died in 2002. That’s probably what some of these are about. They’re all slightly sorrowful letters, it seems. But beautiful all the same.
It’s amazing how much one person can love. It’s amazing how much one person can be loved. I love my dad, I do, but sometimes, that’s hard to do. I like knowing that my mother loved him. It makes him an easy person to love.
I’ll ask him about the letters. I’ll ask him what this all means. I hope that he opens up to me. Love like this doesn’t just disappear. He answered his love; now I’ll find the whole love, the entire story.