Lockbox

The glowing light filtered through your kitchen window like it always did, but this time there was something just a bit off. It wasn't the usual gold, but a deeper, shadowy orange. I could hear the muted laughter and bustling around in the dining room as the annual Thanksgiving was being spread across the table like it was every year.

Still, something just didn't feel right.

I walked into the dining room, watched as my eldest aunt and uncle placed the silver turkey tray in the center of the festive table, right next to the same tattered squirrels all the children loved to play with. I couldn't see their faces as they looked at each other, my aunt and uncle, but I knew underneath the dingy gas masks that they were smiling their doting smiles.

They poured around me, aunts, uncles, cousins, siblings, parents, each one rooted in muffled conversation and laughter, the tube-like trunks of their masks spilled down their faces, dragging in the food. Pushing my way through, completely overlooked, I had to squint as the grimy sunlight pierced through the curtains.

That's when I saw you, in the middle of the crowd, ignored and maskless as I was though you were the matriarch. Your pale blue eyes caught mine and you came forward. Your frail hands, dry and paper-thin, clasped my cheeks. You were small and trembling, just like you had been right before your demise. Tears glistened in your eyes and I knew now why the sun didn't shine as brightly.

I tried to choke out your name, but you put a finger to my lips, and rejecting the crowd around us you whispered deeply into my ear,

"open the rusted green lockbox."