Passing Things On

Passing Things On

Uncle Henry was dead; I was going through his things. Though I’d never met him in person, as his only living relative, I had inherited. I dreaded what a ninety-seven-year-old could have horded, but the house was beautiful, set away from the town in a lovely woodsy lot. As soon as I saw it I fell in love, actually considering keeping it, even moving here. I could work anywhere and there was little holding me in Boston.

I’d planned a week, thinking I’d decide what I wanted, and send the rest to auction. So far I’d seen a lot, but was having trouble letting anything go. Finally, I began the dreaded task of a huge bookcase by emptying the contents, books, papers and whatnot, into piles. I came upon a photo of some celebration.

There were about twenty people, Uncle Henry standing at one edge of the circle, maybe in his forties or fifties then. Only one other person looked familiar, she was almost behind someone else, so difficult to see. Could it be another relative? Certainly not my mother, perhaps related to my father and Uncle Henry? I’d found a magnifying glass, so I took the photo to a window and studied it. She definitely looked familiar.

Suddenly realizing I was actually just wasting time, I put it aside and went back to the bookcase. It was almost empty when I found a secret compartment. Opening it, excited, all I found was a hand mirror. Disappointedly gazing at myself in the mirror, I began to shake. Grabbing the photo again, I could see it so clearly now. The woman in to photo was me, right now.

Glancing back at the mirror, Uncle Henry smiled out. “Hello my love,” he said, “let me tell you about your new life.”