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Fireflies

Deus Ex Machina

By Deirdre MorrisonPublished 3 years ago 5 min read
3

They say that you really never see a thing until it’s time. That’s probably why it had lain there so long. In all the days she’d clambered around his desk, creating imaginary worlds in the cubby behind the study door and generally disturbing his quiet working space, she’d never noticed it. But today, as she cleared his things away for the final time, it caught her eye, wedged between the radiator and the windowsill - small enough for a pocket, big enough to contain a universe.

She opened it, tentatively, unsure what it might contain. She knew his work was highly regarded in some circles. Influential, even.

Flicking through the pages, she saw no real pattern. Notes, sketches, appointments. “Meeting with Carnegie, Wed 24th at 2pm”, for example, and a few pages on, “Have we, as a species, really and truly cast ourselves from Eden, or can it be that the key was always in our hands?”

Perusing its seemingly random contents later that evening, she smiled at a recipe for marmalade. That must have been the one he made when the oranges were plentiful, the one they would have on toast with hot cups of tea. And a few pages later, a drawing of a butterfly on a child’s hand. She remembered that too.

It had been a long day. The finality of locking the door as she left the house had taken its toll. Her eyelids could no longer support their own weight. There, on the sofa, they closed of their own accord, and the little black book fell from her hand, dispensing its mystery as it hit the floor.

She saw the key as she gathered the various tickets, business cards, mementoes and slips of paper that had been added at various points. There were four digits engraved on it. 0471. April ‘71 was her birthday. She smiled at the coincidence. Examining the book, she found an accordion pocket inside the back cover, and put the key back in there. No doubt it was for some long lost padlock - yet another piece of a jigsaw puzzle she’d never truly complete.

Setting the book on the riser of her desk, she glanced at it every now and again as she worked on her manuscript. Some days it would prompt a smile, and others it would tear mercilessly at the scab of her grief.

While her mind wandered one afternoon, trying to ignore the line in the sand her work faced, she gave in to the urge to pick it up. She started scouring the pages for she knew not what. Then, towards the back of the book, she noticed in his antiquated handwriting, her name. Nothing else on the page. Just her name. The facing page was the usual mix of notes, observations and details she’d come to expect of this inscrutable volume. But her eye was drawn to the address in the bottom left corner.

Chester Savings & Loan

Agincourt Street, 0471

It took a minute for the dots to join in her head. Something fizzed in her gut. Her breath quickened. She picked up her phone, and found the bank’s number. It was one of the last of its kind - an old-fashioned institution that hadn’t yet been absorbed by the conglomerates and automated. This was fortunate.

“Welcome to Chester Savings and Loan. How can I direct your call?” asked the receptionist, doing a fair impression of enthusiasm for one who’d done this for too long.

“I need to check a deposit box, numbered 0471.”

“Transferring you to that department, please hold.”

After a few minutes of noticing how slowly seconds could pass, she heard a new voice on the line.

“You’re speaking to James Coughlan, I understand you want to access a deposit box?”

“Yes that’s right. Number 0471”

“And the name on the box?

“Earl Lightman”

“I’m sorry madam, we do not have a box matching those details”

Her heart sank. She didn’t fully know what she’d been hoping for, but she felt it slipping away all the same.

“Madam, in these circumstances, I’ll need to ask for your details please, as part of our client protection protocol.”

“Yes, of course,” she replied, not fully hearing the implication. “It’s Emeline Baxter.”

“Oh, I see! Ah, I must have misunderstood. My apologies, Ms Baxter,” proffered the banker.

“Your box is available to inspect anytime during banking hours,” he continued. “When should we expect you?”

While this in no way helped the swirl in her brain, from somewhere, she heard her voice tell him that she’d be in the following day.

The next morning, she handed over her driving license before being shown to a room lined with numbered boxes.

“There’ll be someone just outside, if you need assistance,”

“Thank you.”

The box had already been set on the desk.

She pulled the key from the back of the notebook. The chair scraping against the tiled floor startled her, as she moved it to sit before this corner piece of her personal jigsaw. Two opposing forces began to wage war in her mind. Her heart raced and the silence of the room deafened her. She desperately wanted to know what was in the box, and simultaneously felt frozen with fear. There was no way of telling what the message within would be.

After what might have been minutes or hours, she put the key in the lock and opened it. A plain piece of card, inscribed with his unmistakable hand met her. She recognised the form. Haiku. He’d always had a passion for the Japanese arts.

“On a summer’s night

I dance with you in my dreams…

We are but fireflies”

The memories crashed her consciousness. Her senses flooded with sounds of the warm evening and the twinkle of the lights strung in the trees. She fished in her pocket for a tissue, and kicked herself for not having brought more.

She turned the card over.

“My darling Em,

Your work is important.

Finish it.

My love and kisses, always.

Picking up the envelope, she removed the carefully folded statement, and the instruction to the bank. She would be able to see it through. He had made sure of that.

literature
3

About the Creator

Deirdre Morrison

A 'Beginners Mind' in action, I stay curious while writing about my work with those who want to use the tools and techniques advanced by neuroscience to create fulfilment, growth and lasting change in their lives.

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