An Ancient Memory

An Ancient Memory

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 towards the light. He began to carefully lift out one old photograph album after another. His eyesight was once bright but now age had dimmed it. He searched longingly for the source that had drawn him here.

It began with the fond recollection of the love of his life, long gone. Somewhere in these albums was a photo of his wife, Elis. Silent as a mouse , he patiently opened the long buried treasurers 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. He really missed her. She had been the joy of his life, always bright and cheerful.

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 Elis always save the children's old junk? Opening the yellowed pages, he glanced over a short reading. 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 fainter and fainter over the years. In the utter silence of the attic, the words of an innocent six-year-old worked their magic and carried the old man to a time almost totally forgotten. 

Entry after entry stirred a sentimental hunger in his heart. He remembered his son , Danish fondly but times had changed much. Danish had grown up and moved on . He was serving the poor in some part of Africa and hardly came home. He was a good boy , good-hearted and with a keen sense of duty.

With a heavy heart, he thought of those days when he had a family. He remembered that he had kept a daily journal of his business activities over the years. He closed his son's journal and took it downstairs , having forgotten the cherished photo that originally triggered his search. Not wanting to bump his head on the rafters, he bent his head and stepped onto the wooden stairway and made his descent.

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 Danish had been nearly erased from its surface.

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 Danish. Didn't catch a thing. With a deep sigh and a shaking hand , he took Danish's journal and found the boy's entry for the same day, June 4. Large scrawling letters , pressed deeply into the paper, read : Went fishing with my Dad. Best day of my life. The old man;s hand shook. He hadn't known that it had mattered that much to Danish.

He wished he could have told Danish that he enjoyed the day. Just then the phone rang, making the old man jump. The phone didn't ring much these days. It was Danish. How good it was to hear his warm voice. Danish asked him how he was and then mentioned that he would be coming home soon with his wife and son. He had named his son, Badrul after his father . He asked his father if he would take his six-year-old son fishing that river in their town. Badrul's eyes filled with tears. He didn't have to tell Danish anything.

Moral of the story: Appreciate someone before it becomes a memory.... Hope you enjoy this story.