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Buried Memories

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Stanley had been digging around his lawn for more than an hour. His landscaping project was turning out to be far bigger than he had envisioned. There was mud everywhere and an upturned garden lay in front of him as if a Dinosaur had stomped on his front lawn. The sun had just set in the horizon and he intended to call it a day. With beads of sweat lining his brows and the rest running down his back, his body was craving for a bath and cold lemonade. He decided on a last few digs and he would give it a rest. This is where he wanted to plant his Japanese maple tree with its fiery red leaves. The thought of a beautiful garden with shady trees and fountain kept him going. That was when he heard a clank, a small one at first and a bigger resounding one as he dug further.

He threw down the shovel and dug around the metal box that started emerging from the sand. His excitement suffused face glowed in the light of the setting sun. What was a metal box doing here, he pondered. He couldn't wait to fish it out and look at the contents. The rectangular box found its way to his living room table and he sat next to it staring at the padlock and the embellishments on the box. There were engravings on it along with some chipped paint and the year 1871 engraved on it at the right corner.

After several unsuccessful attempts he sawed open the lock and with a thumping heart he opened the box with a creak. Inside bundled in layers of taffeta silk were a few objects some bundled in more silk. By the color of the silk he assumed it belonged to a lady. He unfurled the layer and slowly retrieved a jewel box with several necklaces and ruby earrings. A half broken mirror reflected his face and he was thinking about the lady who must have used that mirror so many times to deck herself up. Who was she? A couple of old fashioned pens from that era, a hand-held fan, a blue bonnet, a hair-brush, a metal wine goblet with beautiful engravings and rolled up pieces of paper tucked away inside a metal pipe as if it were meant to hide there for ever.

His excitement knew no bounds as he gently retrieved the rolls of paper from the pipe. Being a writer by profession in addition to a landscape artist, this appeared to him like a story from his book. With trembling hands he opened the sheaf of papers and laid them on the table besides the lamp. He sniffed the paper to catch any whiffs left over time. There wasn't anything; just a journal from a lady who had written her stories for over

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