REMEMBERING RUTH

You ever wonder what happens to all the stuff when someone dies?

Maggie looked up from the cardboard box she was rummaging through, her eyes red but dry.

What do you mean? she asked.

I mean, think about it. All these things meant something to Aunt Ruth, didn't they? And now... we're just putting them in boxes, giving them away, or throwing them out.

Tom sat down on the old wicker chair, the one that Aunt Ruth had always insisted was just too precious to be used.

Maggie sighed, pulling out an old photograph album, its edges frayed from years of handling.

I guess it's the same for everyone, she said. But you're right. It feels... wrong.

Tom picked up a porcelain figurine from the cluttered table beside him. It was a small ballerina, her delicate features frozen in a graceful pose. He turned it over in his hands.

This was her favorite, he said softly. She used to tell me stories about it when I was little.

Maggie paused, her fingers lingering on the cover of the album.

Do you remember the one about the ballerina who danced so beautifully that the stars themselves came down to watch her?

Tom nodded, his eyes glazing over with the memory.

Yeah, and then one day, she just stopped dancing. No one knew why. Some said she fell in love. Others said she was heartbroken. And the stars... they went back to the sky, but they were never as bright again.

Maggie smiled faintly, closing the album and placing it carefully in the box.

I used to wonder if Aunt Ruth saw herself in that story. She never really talked about her past, you know.

Tom placed the figurine back on the table, standing up and moving towards the window. The garden outside was overgrown, wildflowers mingling with weeds. It had been Aunt Ruth's pride and joy once.

I think we all saw a bit of ourselves in her stories, he said. Maybe that's why they meant so much to us.

Maggie stood up too, brushing dust off her jeans.

We should probably take a break, she suggested. Grab some coffee or something.

Tom glanced at his watch.

Yeah, you're right. Maybe we can go to that little café she used to go to every Sunday. Remember? The one with the mismatched chairs and the really good pastries?

Maggie nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips.

I think she'd like that.

They both walked towards the door, pausing for a moment to take one last look at the room. It was filled with memories, both theirs and Aunt Ruth's, lingering like shadows in the fading afternoon light.

Tom put his hand on Maggie's shoulder.

We'll come back and finish later. For now, let's just... remember.

The door creaked as it closed behind them, leaving the room in a gentle, contemplative silence.

The door creaked as it closed behind them, leaving the room in a gentle, contemplative silence.

Tom watched the dust motes dance in the slanting light for a moment longer before turning to follow Maggie down the creaky staircase. They stepped outside, the chill of the evening making them huddle deeper into their coats. The wind carried the faint scent of lavender from Aunt Ruth’s overgrown garden, a bittersweet reminder of the past.

They walked in silence, their footsteps echoing in the empty streets until they reached the little café. It was just as they remembered, a mismatched collection of tables and chairs, each with its own story. The scent of freshly baked pastries wafted out, mingling with the aroma of strong coffee.

Once inside, they found a corner table and slid into the worn seats. The walls were adorned with photographs, each capturing a moment in time that seemed to belong to someone else’s life. Yet, strangely, it felt like a piece of Aunt Ruth was here too, hidden in the laughter and the warmth.

The waitress, a middle-aged woman with a kind smile, approached their table. Maggie ordered coffee and a slice of lemon cake, while Tom opted for tea and a croissant. As they waited, they fell into an easy silence, the hum of the café filling the space between them.

Do you think Aunt Ruth ever felt lonely? Maggie asked suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Tom looked thoughtful, stirring his tea absentmindedly. Maybe. But then again, she had her stories, didn’t she? Maybe they were enough.

Maggie nodded, her eyes distant. It’s funny, isn’t it? How we fill our lives with things and stories, and in the end, they’re all that’s left of us.

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of their drinks and pastries. They sipped in silence, lost in their own thoughts. Outside, the sky had turned a deep indigo, stars beginning to twinkle faintly.

You know, Tom said, breaking the silence, I’ve been thinking. Maybe it’s not about what happens to the stuff when someone dies. Maybe it’s about what those things do to us. How they make us remember, make us feel.

Maggie looked at him, her eyes softening. Yeah, maybe you’re right. Maybe that’s why it feels so wrong to just pack it all away.

They finished their pastries and paid the bill, stepping back into the cool night air. The streets were quiet, the only sound the distant hum of traffic. They walked slowly, not wanting to return to the empty house just yet.

As they approached Aunt Ruth’s garden gate, Maggie paused, her hand lingering on the latch. Do you remember how she used to say that the garden was alive? That it had its own stories to tell?

Tom nodded, his eyes scanning the wildflowers and weeds. Maybe she was right. Maybe it’s all alive, in a way. The stories, the memories. Maybe they’re still here, waiting for us to listen.

Maggie smiled, a tear slipping down her cheek. For the first time since Aunt Ruth’s passing, she felt a sense of peace.

They walked into the garden, the moonlight casting long shadows on the ground. As they stood among the wildflowers, they felt a connection, not just to Aunt Ruth but to something deeper, something timeless.

And in that moment, they realized that the stories, the memories, and the love were not confined to objects or places. They were part of the fabric of their lives, woven into their very being.

They stood there, side by side, in silent communion with the past and the present, feeling the gentle whisper of Aunt Ruth’s spirit in the night breeze.

In the end, they understood that it wasn’t about holding on or letting go. It was about living, remembering, and cherishing the moments that made them who they were.

As they turned to go inside, the stars above seemed to shine a little brighter, as if Aunt Ruth herself was smiling down on them, her stories forever etched in the tapestry of their lives.

Cassandra Byte

Celebrate the beauty of everyday life with Cassandra Byte, capturing heartfelt stories of family, friendship, and growth.