Always a Good Time to Dig

The room was dim, and the dust motes danced through the lone beam of light filtering through the window, filling itself with the blue smokey haze that emanated from around the old man’s head. The chair he sat in, was beaten and worn from the many hours, many years which it had spent supporting and cradling his frame.

His face betrayed his thoughts as he sat leafing through the old notebook, his time was upon him.

The pages for work dates, holidays, family vacations and events was a short column. He’d never taken much time off to enjoy those family holidays, he’d always instead preferred to work and earn.

His finger lingered upon the page, but his eyes moved from the notebook in his lap, to the portrait of his wife on the shelf across from him. He wished he could look upon that image and smile and yet in these moments when he felt his life ebbing away, and the end coming, in these last moments he found himself wondering if he would find his love pleased with him and eager to see him on the other side, or if instead he would find her disappointed and feeling betrayed.

Without looking away from the old photograph, he turned the page, and his fingers went instinctively to the knot in the pulp, held fast in the upper corner of the outer margin. He turned the page again before glancing away from his former bride and back to the book.

Expenses for the house. The roof repair, the bathroom remodel, replacing the old staircase, the pipes bursting; more than once. The time the fridge fried, and the oven went cold. The patio door.

He felt the corners of his mouth rise ever so slightly as his eyes lingered upon that line. The day replayed itself in his mind.

It was evening, the family was gathered about the table for supper. He’d sat at one end of the table and his son was seated at the other end, with the patio door behind him. The child had been told ample times, not to rock the chairs upon their rear legs, and yet still he insisted upon the behavior. Today he was seated at the table with a large glass door behind him, and as would be expected he did indeed proceed to plummet directly through it.

The door had cost a small fortune to be replaced. It was an expensive lesson, but it had been learned on the first pass.

He reached out and tapped his pipe out into the ashtray, and laid it upon the wooden table. The blue smoke of which lingered, fading and dancing in eternal spirals and wisps in that unbroken beam of sunlight.

He adjusted his spectacles, glanced over at the photograph again, and smiled before once again turning the page.

Ah; the painting page. Babies growing up, new homes, new purposes.

He licked his thumb, and turned the page.

The flooring page. The day the bottle of glue slipped off the table. The time the paint tray got stepped in. The kids toys, and their careless destruction. High heels, rubber wheels and dragging steel.

The back of the book was what it was he was seeking, it carried a page of forgotten treasures, time capsules hidden about the property which they’d created and hidden with the children. This was what it was he needed his son to see. If the boy unearthed those treasure troves he would discover that at least one of them was not a time capsule, it was a nest egg, put away in case of need.

The old man knew he no longer had need of it, but he hoped his son would enjoy this final treasure hunt with him.

The old man died peacefully, warmed by the sun, looking at his wife’s photo, sure his son, and only his son would understand that notebook upon his lap.

Indeed it was his son who found him, later that night sitting in the chair, in the glow of the moon. The black notebook laid open to the page in question, and he nodded when he saw the page it was opened to.

He smiled to himself as tipping his hat to his father and turning to the door, he picked up his coat and said aloud to no one; “It’s always a good time to dig.”