In the swoon visible radiation of the Attic. an old adult male. tall and stooped. flex his great frame and made his manner to a stack of boxes that sat near one of the small half-windows. Brushing aside a wisp of cobwebs. he tilted the top box toward the visible radiation and began to carefully raise out one old exposure album after another. Eyess one time bright but now dim searched yearningly for the beginning that had drawn him here.
It began with the fond remembrance of the love of his life. long gone. and someplace in these albums was a exposure of her he hoped to rediscover. Silent as a mouse. he patiently opened the long inhumed hoarded wealths and shortly was lost in a sea of memories. Although his universe had non stopped whirling when his married woman left it. the yesteryear was more alive in his bosom than his present loneliness.
Puting aside one of the dust-covered albums. he pulled from the box what appeared to be a diary from his adult son’s childhood. He could non remember of all time holding seen it before. or that his boy had of all time kept a diary. Why did Elizabeth ever save the children’s old debris? he wondered. agitating his white caput.
Opening the yellowed pages. he glanced over a short reading. and his lips curved in an unconscious smiling. Even his eyes brightened as he read the words that spoke clear and sweet to his psyche. It was the voice of the small male child who had grown up far excessively fast in this really house. and whose voice had grown fainter and fainter over the old ages. In the arrant silence of the Attic. the words of a transparent six-year-old worked their thaumaturgy and carried the old adult male back to a clip about wholly disregarded.
Entry after entry stirred a sentimental hungriness in his bosom like the hankering a nurseryman feels in the winter for the aroma of spring flowers. But it was accompanied by the painful memory that his son’s simple remembrances of those yearss were far different from his ain. But how different?
Reminded that he had kept a day-to-day diary of his concern activities over the old ages. he closed his son’s diary and turned to go forth. holding forgotten the precious exposure that originally triggered his hunt. Hunched over to maintain from knocking his caput on the balks. the old adult male stepped to the wooden staircase and made his descent. so headed down a carpeted staircase that led to the lair.
Opening a glass cabinet door. he reached in and pulled out an old concern diary. Turning. he sat down at his desk and placed the two diaries beside each other. His was leather-bound and engraved neatly with his name in gold. while his son’s was tattered and the name Jimmy had been about scuffed from its surface. He ran a long skinny finger over the letters. as though he could reconstruct what had been worn off with clip and usage.
As he opened his diary. the old man’s eyes fell upon an lettering that stood out because it was so brief in comparing to other yearss. In his ain neat handwriting were these words: Wasted the whole twenty-four hours angling with Jimmy. Didn’t catch a thing.
With a deep suspiration and a shaking manus. he took Jimmy’s diary and found the boy’s entry for the same twenty-four hours. June 4. Large scribbling letters. pressed profoundly into the paper. read: Went fishing with my Dad. Best twenty-four hours of my life.