A forgotten kiss

Upon folding the last load of towels used for the flooded basement floor, I thought my household cleanup complete from the April 2nd rainstorm.

Nope.

Last week, my third roofer referral and I found water in one attic, and black mold in another.

“I recommend you call an attic professional,” he said.

Oh, no. Another decision to make without my late husband.

Thus began another purging, the volume a collection of fifty-some boxes, footlockers, plastic bags and bins. Every surface needed scrubbing with a mold remover.

Thankfully, my daughters and I used sturdy plastic bins to preserve most of their school papers, books, photographs and other memorabilia. Fifty-four years’ worth of hopes and dreams come true.

Fifty-four years of forgotten photographs of what mattered most to my husband, our children and me.

And the cycle of life from Cabbage Patch to Strawberry Shortcake dolls to high school yearbooks, track and cross-country medals and college diplomas.

The challenge tested my fortitude to persevere to the end, for might I open a Pandora’s Box? After twenty-nine years, what might I discover about my firstborn? How and why her descent into drug addiction and ultimate death?

Transferring the attics’ contents into the bedrooms demanded concentration to avoid bodily injury. I was much younger and stronger when I stowed away what I considered too valuable to release.

Therefore, I decided to empty one attic one day, and the second attic the following day.

After purging the first attic, I opened several boxes of my firstborn’s clothing that remained untouched by mold. I’m thankful wisdom suggested to assess the contents and condition of the second attic after a good night’s rest.

Oh, my goodness, I found twice the boxes and bins in the second attic, every container covered with black mold.

The contents of each box reviewed my daughters’ accomplishments and differences. The second born, who loved singing as a child and sustains a commitment to a community choir where she lives in the San Francisco area.

To my delight, I found my third daughter’s moldy copy of her senior year high school yearbook, produced under her artistic direction. Immediately, I cleaned the covers and moldy pages and placed the book in direct sunlight.

On the bed, in a pile of envelopes bursting with photographs, I spied a photo of Mel and me kissing. I’m dressed in my cap and gown under a bright sky on Oakland University’s campus, fall 1998.

Dear Reader, bystanders look our way as an unknown family member snapped the rare expression of affection and congratulations between the man of my life and me.

A kiss forever forgotten had the rainstorm not caused damage to the roof and attic of our home.

Truly, I’ve searched years for my photos of that day when I received my Degree of Bachelor of Arts. At last, the blissful kiss appeared amongst a pile of rescued photos, unharmed.

Praise God, nothing akin to Pandora’s Box.

Contact Iris at irisfarmletters@gmail.com