Memory Box

The drip from the kitchen tap reverberated off the surface of the sink.

I stood a moment, the dull silence of the morning outside rendering me still. A glass hung limply in my hand.

I peered out underneath the window blind at a grey sky; November's suffocating shroud draped across the treetops.

Wind rippled the grass that had what was supposed to be its final cut a fortnight ago. The unseasonably warm weather had raised it again, provoking a daily inner monologue of 'will I-won't I'.

Its whirr grew louder, drowning out the rhythmic patter of the tap water in the sink. I narrowed my eyes; they darted left and right as the noise grew louder still.

Flicking off the tap, I paused as the whirring reached a crescendo. My attention was drawn to the back door. To a darkness that filled the small translucent window.

The shadow seemed to hover, lowering slightly until a hollow thud signalled its departure. Light filtered through the window once again and the whirring faded into the clouds.

I loosened my grip on the glass I had been holding. I watched the colour return to my fingers as I placed it back into the sink.

I raised the window blind right to the top, stretching on my toes in an attempt to defy physics and look around the corner to see the doorstep.

A fresh gust of wind roared along the glass, and a new sound came from behind the back door.

A hollow series of thuds, followed by a gentle scraping sound. I reached across for the handle, pausing momentarily with the coolness of the metal handle, and opened the door.

The cardboard box lay at a 45 degree angle, straddling the doorstep and the gravel driveway. Its edge had penetrated the stones, creating a ridge that the wind was trying its best to push the box through.

Its edges were even - about a foot in length. The folds were held together with brown tape, pulled neatly around it, sealing it shut.

I edged towards it, hesitating slightly before reaching my hands out. The familiar texture of corrugated cardboard against my fingertips. I lifted it. It felt empty.

I turned the box in my hands. Shook it, becoming more emboldened. I glanced again around the garden, eyes scanning the trees for any clues. Ears primed for the sound of rustling behind the hedge.

But nothing.

A brief shiver roused me and I realised I was on the doorstep in November in a t-shirt. With a final glance around, I brought the box inside and closed the door behind me.

I placed it on the table with some care. Examined the tape. Checked for any message on the outside. There was none. Just light brown cardboard, painstakingly sealed.

I shook it again, as if the wind may have concealed the sound of any movement. Nothing. Why has someone left an empty box on my doorstep?

I realised I was absent-mindedly picking at the tape. My curiosity finding its way through my subconscious and into my fingers.

Turning away, I rummaged for the Stanley knife in the utility room cupboard. My thumb trembling slightly as I pushed forward the slider to reveal the blade.

Choosing a side, I held the blade against the shiny brown film that held together the flaps. I pushed down. The blade pierced the tape with satisfying ease.

I drew it towards me. Slowly, carefully, until I reached the edge of the box. Turning it again, slicing the connection that held the edge together until the flaps raised themselves slightly.

Pulling them open, my fingers grasped the faces of cardboard underneath. Light began to replace shadow as I pulled them too apart and looked inside.

It wasn't quite empty.

Neatly taped - this time with slightly off-white masking tape - to the inside of the box was a small white rectangle.

As my eyes adjusted, I could make out the smooth rear-side of what appeared to be a photograph.

In neat, printed handwriting, there was a short message on it. I squinted to read it.

"APRIL 15 1987."

I quickly did the maths. I would have been just over a month old at the time. Still, I didn't reach for it. I returned to the Stanley knife.

Methodically dismantling the box, I cut the tape along every edge until the box's net lay out before me and placed it onto the kitchen table.

I stared at the photo again. It was raining outside now; powerful drops that the wind battered against the window pane.

One by one, I peeled back the carefully fixed sections of masking tape, leaving the picture face down and staring again at the date.

April 15 1987.

I carefully turned the picture over. It carried the grainy look of a photograph that was of its age.

A forest of towering pinewoods filled the background; a wall of green with just the tiniest slither of blue sky above their pointed peaks.

Below the trees flowed a river, its surface dark. The Bann, maybe. A small wooden boat sat moored on the bank, underneath the canopy of a smaller tree.

I lifted the picture and peered closely, hoping to identify the tree. It seemed to have the gnarled features of the hawthorn.

Under the tree stood a figure, half-silhouetted as the sun beamed from behind. A man. Staring out onto the river.

His left hand was raised to rest against the trunk of the tree; the sleeves of his blue and white checked shirt rolled up.

His right hand was in the pocket of his dark jeans. The faint lines of laces on his boots could just be made out.

On his head, a wisp of hair raised into the air as if wafted by the breeze coming off the river.

Completing the picture, in the foreground, was the yellowed, stubbled grass of a freshly cut field. My eyes were drawn to the bottom-right corner of the photo.

Neatly marked in black, in stark contrast to the yellow of the grass, was another date.

"NOVEMBER 29 2022"

And it clicked.

The figure in the picture was my grandad. November 29 was his birthday. The photograph was taken on his farm, looking out onto the River Bann.

He'd taken us to this place as children growing up. I remembered the crunchy feeling of the stubbled grass against my feet. The field seemed enormous.

I remembered the grass acceding to worn brown soil as we approached the river. The gentle knock of the boat as it bobbed against a large rock embedded in the bank.

We would sit for a while, enjoying the lapping of the water around our feet, the echo of our excited yells from the depths of the forest on the far side of the river.

I remembered the rustle of grandad's feet on the harvested field as he approached with a wry smile. Resting his arm on the tree, just as the photo depicted and directing us with a nod of his head.

"Right, home."

I realised with a start that I was crying. The kind of tears that sneak up on you, suddenly appearing on your cheeks.

Wiping them away, I lifted the photo and headed for the car.

The farm was about a fifteen-minute drive from my home. I got in and turned the ignition. Muted the radio. Placed the photograph on the passenger seat.

How had this photo ended up on my doorstep? Why had it been taped onto the inside of a cardboard box? How had it been delivered?

And mostly, why? And why today - November 29 - my grandad's birthday and the date scribed on the front of the photograph?

What was the significance of April 15 1987? Was this just a coincidence?

I turned the car down the narrow gravel lane that led to the farm. Grass sprouted through the centre of the lane as I navigated the potholes that littered the passage.

Grabbing the photo and slipping it into my jacket pocket, I made my way across the low bridge to the entrance of the field.

It was full of barley and I carefully made my way along the edge so as not to interfere. It felt sacred, in some way.

I could see the tall pinewoods swaying in that late-Autumn breeze as I approached the spot in the photograph.

The hawthorn tree still framed the scene, standing wisened almost 36 years on. The boat was gone, but the river continued to lap at the stone it had bobbed against back then.

The mud sagged slightly under my feet as I made my way to the stone, taking a seat on it. I listened to the water splashing gently onto the shore.

Birds sang from among the pinewoods, their song carrying on the breeze across the Bann.

I mused again on the date of the photograph. I had just been born. He had just become a grandad for the first time.

It was a candid moment, staring out at the river - much like I was doing now. I sat another while, wading through the setting's lived memories in silent contemplation.

I turned my head as the startled flight of birds broke my reminiscence. Moving across the field was another figure. My mother.

I smiled. She smiled.

As she drew closer, we embraced, before both sitting side-by-side on the rock. She had often spoken of this place when we were children too.

Before we had sat with grandad at this very hollow, she and her brother and sister had done the same.

But we hadn't been there in years. We had been in and out of the farm almost daily growing up, but time has a way of breaking habits.

The photo in the box was her way of rekindling an old custom. We were soon joined by my brother and sister. They had received the same photo in a box.

We stayed there for an hour or so; children again. Splashing in the water, yelling - with some profanity - across the river for the pinewoods to sing their response.

But mostly laughing, smiling in the memory of a man who would have been 97 years old.

In the chill of the riverside, we remembered fondly. Bonded by a memory stirred by the innovation of a sentimental mother.