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I made the long drive back to Grandma’s house the day of her funeral. As I entered the house, it seemed so dreary and empty. There was a drawing, pulling feeling to walk downstairs into the basement. The rickety, wooden door creaked loudly on its hinges as I pushed it open. I grasped for the light switch and found a pull string hanging down before my face. Pulling it, the light dimly lit the steps to the basement. It seemed like an eternity making the descent. The pulling feeling grew stronger as I placed my feet upon the cold concrete floor. I felt like an intruder as I poked around the basement looking for a reason to be there. I stumbled upon a worn leather steam trunk in the corner. A quilted blanket was draped over it as to conceal the treasure. The latches took some work to unfasten. As I opened the trunk, I could smell the fragrance of Red Velvet perfume, the kind Grammie always wore. Antique lace napkins were stored there. The old trunk had crossed the Atlantic Ocean in 1938 and it was showing its age. The tears welled up in my weary eyes.
Grammie had lived in this house since arriving in America at the age of eight-years-old. She had been sent ahead of her parents, to live with her Aunt Eliza. Grammie Hena was brought up in the Jewish traditions of her family and worshipped at the synagogue every Saturday. I pulled out the Menorah and the Star of David and held them closely to my heart. The trunk was filled with pictures of my great grandparents who never made it to America. They fell victim to Hitler in Germany shortly after Grammie came here. The only family treasures that remained were hidden in the trunk.
Grammie Hena lived with Aunt Eliza and her Uncle Abe until she met and married Grandpa Cohen in 1948. My Daddy, Jacob, was their eldest of four sons. Uncle Abe had a difficult time when Grammie and Granpa joined a group of Jewish Christians in their early 20’s. He disowned Grammie and Granpa for nearly ten years until 1960, when Uncle Cohen and Aunt Eliza joined the fellowship and became Christian believers. Thus began a rich family legacy.
I unfolded a soft fabric piece from within the trunk. There was the delicate dress that Grammie had worn on her wedding day celebration. There was a beautiful picture in black and white of Grammie and Grampa. I can hear the music and smell the aromas of rich food. What a day that must have been. I dug deeper into the trunk to find baby clothes that maybe my Dad had worn on the eighth day when he received his name. I was careful not to crumble any of the brittle, brown photographs. My plan was to take them to be restored so that my grandchildren could pull them from my hope chest one day long from now.
I will treasure this old luggage for the rest of my days and share its contents and the history therein. I am so thankful that Grammie made the long journey so many years ago. She took excellent care of her parents’ treasures so that its contents can continue to be passed down for generations in the old steam trunk.
This story is fiction. Word count 555.
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