Homage To An Angel
A strange euphoria engulfed me as I lifted the box’s seemingly heavy lid. And as I tried not to choke on the rupturing dust particles
I started familiarizing myself with the foreign pattern this time capsule has kept secret and safe for a reasonably long time.
Dark at first, the inner walls started getting brighter as light snuck in between the once air tight sealed edges, and soon vigorous red
velvet prevailed, with more dust particles sparking like gold powder under the warm influent ray surging through the attic’s round
window. It would’ve been a typical horror movie scene were it not for a September’s shy sun inspiring this worn out place to rise
and bloom. A place we always kept hidden, forgotten, and related it to daunting tales as kids. But this time I was no kid sneaking
into the unknown to brag about it in front of other siblings; I was here to forcefully claim what was always mine. It was in this box
that all the reasons for me to live were kept sacred and out of harm's way. I still remember her face when she helped me up the
ladder and whispered into my ears: “don’t tell anyone about it, you will need it when I am gone.” And for a six years old troubled child,
being gone usually meant a few weeks’ vacation I would spend agitated awaiting for her return. But little did I know back then, it was
the last trip my grandmother would ever take.
And like the child back then, my hands started rushing between the different objects we hid inside that day, I didn’t know what to look
for and where to start from for that matter. I started shuffling the different scraps and pictures as my hands start roaming inside,
often recoiling under the peck of a pin or the now blunt blades of my grandfather’s pipe tamper. I grew tense as sweat drops cooled
off on my forehead while looking for answers. But the question inside me grew bigger and more baffling. Was it a picture? Or did she
keep me a letter? Or perhaps she placed some object when I wasn’t looking? “Don’t underestimate this box or throw it away in vain!”
she added in a serious tone as she stroked my hair, “you will need it one day.” What was so important that she wanted me to find?
And most important of all is now the perfect time? I decided to award myself with an early break even though I wasn’t doing that
much of a job anyways. But I needed to relax and find peace of mind before resuming my quest for the anonymous again.
I cleared the corner behind me and brought myself to nestle in it while I rocked back and forth reciting an old lullaby I couldn’t quite
remember the words to, but the rhythm was familiar nevertheless. It was no special song, but she always made sure I heard it every
night before she kissed me good night and pulled the blanket over my face away from all the demons and fears. With her I was forever
invulnerable, safe from harm and suffering. Resting on top of the pile inside the monolith was an old Polaroid picture. The figures had
accented edges and time toned it somewhat greenish. For a woman her age, she stood amazingly strong and stiff, but that wasn’t
a unique characteristic she enjoyed. Most women in the country side prove their survival techniques somewhere between their first
born and the daily trips to the roof to scare the birds away from the left to dry wheat. And my grandmother was no exception; she
was a determined housekeeper, a loving mother and a perfect wife, and for an army man who spent more days with his rifle than his
family, she was the best person my grandfather can count on. With both her hands on my shoulders I was smiling as someone took
that photograph, it was my special moment with her, something she never failed to favor me with. In the background was grandpa’s
German shepherd sniffing some bowl. She never liked that animal, “Najis” she would say, “taints my kitchen ware.” But she would smile
because she knew it was the only way she managed to tease her husband.
The next object that caught my attention was a small ivory figurine, looked like a miniature totem. Brilliant white at one point, it has
now succumbed to the sands of time as it wrapped itself in a pale yellow coat. But the significantly precise art work never ceased to
boast. Carved and arranged perfectly, the tiny corners remind one of recurrence and eternity. Sleek impressions emphasize a rich
tribal heritage, inspired by music and the need to create. It was a gift father brought home after a long trip to Abidjan. As if he
sensed my interest in simplicity and meanings of things back then, he chose to give me this instead of a huge RC car or a robot like my
other siblings. I wanted something African, not a Chinese chip with wires and LEDs. I never understood why she took it away from me
that night, I was furious for I never expected the person I loved the most to deprive me from such a special gift. Without reasoning
with me, her favorite grandson, she took it away before I even managed to understand what I was given. And despite the fact I
wasn’t going to give up my figurine without a fight, she wasn’t affected with all the kicking, punching and howling I was letting out in
frenzy. She just disappeared into her room while I mourned my lost treasure. She knew I would forget about it in the morning when I
approached her like every other days with barely opened eyes to get my daily potion of kisses and cuddles. And it happened to be the
way she predicted, for in the next morning I forgot I had a small treasure, almost a small fortune for a kid my age and I just dragged
myself outside looking for her like a pilgrim scouting his Mecca. As I tried to rub the yellow tracks of time off my statue, I wrapped the
old leather strap around my fingers and became one again with my long lost companion.
At first I frowned, pulled my hand out fast and rubbed it. As I was searching through the box blindly my finger tips once again stumbled
across something that I wasn’t expecting to find. It took me a moment to build my courage to take it out and check it. Purple polka
dots were fading away; I wonder which dress she made this out of. On the top was a long thread that she once tied to her neck. An
awkward coldness sneaked inside me as I felt the soft fabric of her money pouch. I thought they got rid of all of her clothes because
the older and wiser ones said it brings bad luck; to keep the departed’s clothes at home. I was now sure that she made more than one
trip to this box because I don’t remember seeing her placing all these things inside. And to think she cared enough to remember what I
suggested as a game to pass time and make a time capsule made my frantic heart settle down. I never expected her to consider my
ideas of any significant importance, after all what would a promise of a six years old to guard and treasure mean? But somehow she
knew I would come back one day looking for answers. After all she was the only one who understood me. Missing the weight of coins
and notes inside it, the pouch felt like a feather. I always tracked the pouch in and out of her dress as she paid for my caramel coated
apples and chocolate bars in golden foil wrappers. And no matter how long and loud my mother complained, saying she has spoiled me;
she couldn’t resist my eyes every time I asked her to buy me candy. I hesitated for a few minutes before trying to smell the old fabric,
it felt holy but I also needed to do it. I wasn’t expecting a lot though, because it just smelled like old stored clothes. That familiar smell
that you can find in every house, not horrible but rather mind invigorating as it makes u remember all that was. I remembered all the
time I would see it hanging from her neck. And leaning over the thin convex Saj oven metal sheet, she would always smile when I
approached her as she baked our morning bread. She only took it off when she went to bed. What aches my heart is not knowing
when did she put it in the box, but I am hoping she was the one who did, probably that night before she left this world.
Bound by another leather strap were two flawless wedding rings, and to my surprise they managed to maintain the sparkling reflection
gold has upon purchase. My grandfather was assassinated long before she passed away, but she always kept the rings strapped.
They represented everything to her, regardless of their seemingly normal street value. In their circular continuity she saw love, faith,
life and death. And again she managed to save them for me for some other occasion where I might find them practical.
A revelation was already poking me gently; I finally realized or at least managed to understand what she wanted from me on that cold
day when we sealed our secret treasure box. Too many objects were placed there and regardless of what I would have chosen,
results would have been the same. She managed to tell me and teach me about all the things my young age prevented me from
comprehending. She knew I would return here one day seeking answers, she knew no one would take care of me like she did. But
knowing she won’t last that long to witness me growing up she had to be sure I received proper knowledge. She relied on the box to
deliver it to me and on her faith in god to guide me. She never trusted anyone else to do what she did best; watching over me.
She smiled when others frowned, embraced when others pushed away but never failed to raise and restrain. And whenever I was
around, she made sure I never go wanting.
Promising myself an even warmer evening, I picked up the box and took the stairs down. I couldn’t think of a proper way to praise,
thank and cherish such a wonderful person. The child inside me made me look up to the sky, convinced that she is up there watching
down on me. And before her face disappeared amongst the clouds, I smiled before locking the main gate and driving away.
