Family Heirlooms

• Chantelle Hollander, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2012

Chills wrack her spine. The carcasses of leaves gather under the soles of her shoes in a hushed crunch. Precarious precipitation sputters through the canopy above, languidly teetering its way down, down where it collects on the forest floor in murky puddles. She carves her way around tree trunks, a cobblestone pathway making its presence known to her as she stubs the toe of her left boot on the shamefaced outcrop. She continues on, scarcely hobbling in the wake of the moment, much too aware of the urgency lacing the ambience. Lighting crackles in the sky, mirroring the edginess enveloping her façade. Her raw digits are numb to the feel of the brown paper package fitted snugly between her palms.

A humble shack waits in a gloomy meadow ahead. Rusty squeaks of a quaint weathervane are all there is to be heard as the girl hurries her way up the porch, not at all comfortable with the way the dingy floorboards creak and bend under her weight. She manages to balance the parcel in one hand while gently rapping her knuckles against the door. There’s a pregnant silence before she decides to knock again, and the door is opened before the back of her hand can meet wood. Embarrassed, she quickly withdraws, mumbling a quiet apology while readjusting the bundle in her arms. A solitary, frayed woman barely fills the door frame, her lithe hands folded across the embossed head of a majestic cane.

“Ce qui vous amène ici, enfant?”

The foreign words go in one ear and out the other. The younger of the two cannot think of anything else other than to apologise for her lack of familiarity with the language, ever-so-slowly stumbling over the enunciations. She is sure her lips have butchered the confession.

“Je suis désolé, mais je ne parle pas français.”

The frail woman inclines her chin ever-so-slightly, the crow’s feet tipping the corners of her eyelids deepening, waiting for an explanation as to why the girl before her has spent her time traversing the woods with the intention of meeting a secluded widow. Her eyes fall to the parcel in the girl’s hands, “Cela se produirait pour être pour moi?”

She stutters over her words once again, “Um, this is for you.”

Cautiously, she holds out the box. The old woman receives it with a twinge of surprise, “Merci.”

The girl only smiles in return, gesturing towards the parcel and rolling her hands in a fashion that simulates her tearing a square of paper in half. The message is passed on through sign language, and the widow responds quite hastily for her old age. The cane is handed over to the youngest, and paper discarded. What is left is a breathtakingly beautiful music box, chipped and worn by the sands of time. The widow pays no mind to its condition, only displaying her happiness through the glassy orbs dribbling from the lips of her eyes.

“I thought it was time to return this, Grandmama.”