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The Old Memory

There were three little boxes of things near and dear to me kept on the top of the window ledge. I reached my tiny, nimble hands till where my body allowedbut sadly I couldn’t reach the box. I tottered away, only to be derided in contempt for my baseless actionsby my mother.
Now mother was a melting pot of rage and kindness, in equal parts,but sometimes the rage used to eclipse herkindness and this madeher look cruel. But she wasn’t. Now mother and I had a special relationship. Unlike me and my dad who had normal Father-son relationship. We talked, we played, and he taught me how to play ball and things like that. But mother didn’t play with me. She always smiled at me, god knows for what reason, but I liked it. I felt good when she smiled at me.
Since father wasn’t always at home, I spent a lot of time withmy mother. Right now she was taking me near the boxes. My earsperked up, the hair on my arms stood ramrod straight. Forgive me, but I was feeling ecstatic. What were in those boxes? Well, when I was 74, my wife left me a relic on her deathbed. It was a forgotten piece of a clay model that I had given her when we were young. That was in the box. Along with a million dollars which would be my ticket to anew life. A new life didn’t necessarily mean a better life but it did mean something different.
There was a handgun, given to me my sergeant when I was inthe war. It was very important for me. Sort of good luck charm thatkept me safe during times of trouble. I had to bid goodbye to this world at some point of time or the other. So a pointless examination of things near and dear was inevitable in the larger scheme of things.The boxes were and mother would never let me touch them because she knew I would leave her as soonas I saw what was in the boxes. So decided not to push it. I decided to let it go.
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