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| I pushed the old wooden rocking chair out of our front door, and let it rest on our lawn. It rocked back and forth a few times, like the slow motion of a boat on water. The pre-storm wind blew through our bare trees, and the branches crashed and bumped into their wooden neighbours. The wind whistled through my hair, and caused my bow to flip and turn haphazardly on my head. My dress floated somewhere around my middle, the cold breeze feeling like an icy hand poking at my thighs. Ma ran out of the house, tugging Peter behind her and attempting to hold Henry and the camera in the same hand. �Under the tree, Mary,� she said and plopped Peter on the chair before I had the time to move it. �You may stand there, Mary,� Ma pointed at a small patch of grass beside the rocking chair. �Why can�t I sit on the chair?� I whined, and Ma glared at me. �Because we want to see your pretty dress in the picture, that�s why,� Ma said, while looking through the camera�s lens. There was no point in arguing - Ma thought she was always right. Ma kneeled in front of the rocking chair to take the picture. Suddenly, her face reappeared from behind the black box. �Mr. Watson! How nice to see you!� Ma called, and waved. �Nice to see you as well, Mrs. Smith. After you�re finished there, I�d like to talk with you for a minute,� Mr. Watson said from the sidewalk. He paused and smiled at me. �Good day, Miss Mary. How lovely you look in your dress!� I smiled faintly, but secretly wanted to run into the house, in order to get away from the bitter cold wind. Ma lined us up in the camera again, and snapped the picture. The tremendous flash caused me to see swirling black butterflies, and it took several seconds for all of them all to disappear. �Good children. You Father will love it,� Ma smiled, and lowered the camera. �Run inside and get changed, Mary. Can you take back the rocking chair on the way? Thanks darling,� Ma said in one breath, and before I could respond, she stood up. She wiped away some dead blades of grass from her dress, and carrying the camera and Henry, she walked towards Mr. Watson. I pushed Peter off of the rocking chair, and he landed flat on his behind. He stood up slowly, but he didn�t seem to be hurt by his hard landing. I pushed the rocking chair back in the direction of the house, letting its rockers run in the same grooves as they had made on the way out. Peter ran ahead of me, swinging his arms like a windmill in a hurricane and kicking a few stones across the front lawn. One of the stones failed to move, and he stepped on it accidentally. His sudden cry made me halt, and the abrupt stop made the rocking chair smack me in the face. I rubbed my aching forehead, and looked at Peter. His crying ceased just as quickly as it had started, and he was back kicking stones within several seconds. I gripped the thick wooden spokes on the back of the rocker, and pushed with all of my might. My feet slipped on the loose sand on the lawn, and I fell onto my side, pulling the rocking chair over with me. The weight of the chair pushed its armrests hard into the ground, and locked them in place with invisible arms. I wiped away grains of sand from my knees, and a trickle of blood appeared from under my stockings. There was a small tear in my leggings, and Peter looked at it, deep in thought. �Owwww,� he mumbled frowning, and skipped away blissfully. I tried desperately to push the huge rocking chair upright, but it was too heavy for me to lift. I searched the front lawn for Ma, but she had disappeared from view. �Ma?� I called, and she didn�t answer. I could hear talking from somewhere nearby, but I wasn�t sure where it was coming from. I dragged my sore leg towards the talking, and stood behind our bare tree. �... Yes, I agree, the price of potatoes is unbelievable. But there was a reason why I came here today. I was at the Post Office, seeing if anything arrived from my son Harold, when I saw this in your mail slot,� Mr. Watson was saying, and handed something to Ma. �But these were the letters we sent to David, why did they come back here?� Ma asked, panic starting to take a hold of her voice. �It has something written on the other side,� Mr Watson turned his head as if he was slapped across the face, and his voice faded. Ma turned over the stack of envelopes, and read the two lines aloud. �Could not be delivered - recipient�s whereabouts unknown,� Ma dropped the letters on the ground as she finished reading the envelopes. Her hands flew to her face, her knees gave out, and she fainted like a stack of falling bricks. I step into the house for the first time in months. Ma�s vaporous scent is swimming through the almost empty house, and I can barely stand it being in here. Ma died a few nights ago, and I am in charge of dividing up her possessions between my two brothers and I. In the back room, Ma kept all of our outgrown toys, games and old moth-eaten clothing. In one of the hundreds of boxes, lies the old camera and our family picture taken almost thirty years ago. Somewhere, lost in the vast sea of brown waves, a box holds a memory forgotten by everyone except me. I have to find that picture, I think. The picture was taken the last day that my family was genuinely happy. Peter and Henry had no clue what was happening, or why Ma�s wailing could be heard all throughout the night. But I knew what happened - I knew Father was in the war, and that he was as forgotten on the battlefield as the cursed camera was in the towering walls of the back room. I carefully open box after box, finding nothing of any importance. In the fifteenth box or so, I find my dress that I wore in the picture. It is faded pink now, the same colour as Father�s grave stone. The dress smells musty and old, the victim of the dozen mothballs at the bottom of the box. There is a lump under the hem of the dress, and I move the lacy edges in order to see what causes it. Hidden under my dress is a brown paper bag. My heart is pounding like a hummingbird�s wings, and I slowly open the bag. Inside, wrapped in white tissue paper, lies the camera that took our family picture. It�s smaller than I remember, I think, and I let the camera rest in my palm. I half expect Ma to whip around the corner and tell me to drop it, that the camera was not meant for little girls� hands. I stare at the black box with a slight scowl on my face, and after several minutes, I pick up the paper bag to put the camera back inside. There�s something else inside the bag, it�s too heavy to be empty. I put my hand inside, and I pull out a small package wrapped in brown tissue paper with a piece of string. On the outside of the package, Ma�s scrawl says For Our Dearest Mary. I tear open the package, and look at the old black and white photograph. I don�t remember ever seeing the family picture Ma took that day, but I was now face-to-face with my six year old figure. I smile, the moments up until the picture rush back before my eyes. I could see Peter hobbling through the living room, Henry running his little sausage fingers through Ma�s blonde hair, and Mr. Watson�s fake smile. My smile fades, and Mr. Watson�s voice rings through my ears like a death procession. �...I�d like to talk with you for a minute...� I was about to put the picture down, when something catches my eye. I look closer, and gasp. Standing beside the tree in the front lawn is a dark figure. I put the picture closer to the hanging lightbulb, and put on my glasses. �Oh my God,� I whisper, �I know who you are.� I trudge through the room to the other side, and open one of the boxes I had taped shut only hours ago. I toss several books onto the floor, and finally find what I�m looking for. I smile at the picture of Father in his army garb, and take a final look at the picture of the three children before placing it into my purse. Page One of story More Stories More Stories for School Lair Homepage |
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