Two Years Missing

The smells of summer and spring rain filtered through the aged wood that made up the frames that held the garage up. Joe Benchley opened the creaking garage door and the stale air breathed onto him as if the structure were alive. He half expected its rectangular nostril to breathe him into garage. When it didn’t, he decided to climb in of his own accord. Clutter and boxes of faded memories occupied the space that would have been filled by his car. Today was to be the last day that these boxes would call the garage their home.

He looked at the stacks of boxes and poked around at them to judge which ones would be easiest to take out first. Every now and again he would whisper to himself the various memories stored in each cardboard cube.

“This one’s from Niagara Falls, when we took the kids,” Joe said under his breath, “And this one’s from when we lived Brooklyn. Wedding photos. Christmas, 1992. My old notes from college. Oh, and there’s the box that holds the year that I met Eve.” Such memories, and under these circumstances could be such distractions. He smiled to himself as he moved the boxes just outside the garage onto the cool driveway.

For the first time in years, the garage was beginning to resemble a garage; all cavernous and empty and dark. He looked at the metropolis of cardboard and plastic in the driveway and darted his eyes back to the remaining boxes in the garage. Something was not right. Joe couldn’t explain it but he was sure that there was something missing. He paused and stroked his chin, furrowing his eyebrows to figure out what exactly was no longer there that should be.

“That’s odd,” Joe whispered as he squatted next to a box with a year written on its side, “There are two years missing.” He looked among the boxes in the driveway and couldn’t find them. Back into the garage he went and still did not see the two years of tangible memories. “It has to be somewhere.”

Joe took another look at the stack of boxes in the driveway, then back to the boxes still in the garage, then back to the boxes in the driveway. His eyes furrowed, confounded and worried he crossed his arms across his chest. Eve came out with a pitcher of cool lemonade for her husband.

“I just don’t understand,” Joe thought out loud.

“Don’t understand what, dear?” Eve asked.

“There are boxes missing.”

“Missing? That’s not good.” Eve handed her husband a tall glass of lemonade. The condensation collected on the sides of the glass and dripped down the side of his arm. “I’m sure you just misplaced them.”

“But that’s not possible. I’ve looked at every box out here in the driveway and in the garage at least three times.”

“I’m sure they’ll turn up. Why are these two boxes so important to you?”

“The memories. But now it’s almost as if those two years just disappeared like smoke in the wind.”

Eve walked over to the stack of boxes clumsily lumped to the side of the driveway searching for something. She couldn’t find whatever it was she was looking for, but she knew exactly what it was. Unfortunately, for Mr. Benchley, he did not.

“What are you snooping around for? I told you I couldn’t find those boxes.”

“It’s funny how you feel when objects go missing, you feel as if those memories have to fade as well. What years did you say were missing?”

“It was the year I met you and the year Sue was born, but I don’t see how--” Eve put a hand up to silence her worried husband. She smiled at a box and bent over to pick it up. The dust that shook off left a light brown cloud that dragged the sunlight along the path of the box.

Eve ripped the years old tape from the box with a gritty scratching sound as if the glue on the strip sighed with desperation to cling to the cardboard. It fell as a cellophane curl on the driveway floor. More dust kicked off as she swung the flaps of the box open. She was smiling, squinting to keep the heavy dust out of her hazel colored eyes. Her slender fingers grew elegantly from her delicate hands that rummaged through the box and pulled out a silver picture frame, tarnished only slightly by age. She handed the picture to Joe.

“Do you remember that picture?” she asked.

He looked at the picture and brushed the light coat of dust leaving streaks where he dragged his fingers. It was an image he had long forgotten: a younger version of himself smiling so the corners of his lips tried in vain to reach his earlobes. His wife was in the picture as well. Her smile was not as wide as his as she was exhausted, her brow covered in glowing perspiration. But the twinkle in her eyes made up for the rest of the smile that she was too tired to complete. And in their arms was the culmination of their love. Bundled up, eyes closed tight among her sweetly silent pink face was their first and only child, Sue.

“The day we became a family,” Joe replied, “It’s hard to believe that either of us could smile after that ordeal.”

Eve got on the tips of her toes and kissed her husband gently on the cheek before walking off back into the house. Joe set the frame up so his past self could keep watch over his present self’s current project of cleaning out the garage. The boxes were never found, but the contents were strewn about here and there among other boxes and it didn’t matter. When the day’s work was done, Joe Benchley would look back at the sliver framed picture of his family smiling at him and couldn’t help but smile back. With his handkerchief, he dusted the frame thoroughly and brought it inside the house, where he enjoyed dinner with his beautiful family.