by Beth Hoffman
After I’d given Eddie his dinner, I stood at the counter and lightly touched the box.
The time had come.
Opening a drawer, I removed a razor-sharp paring knife. My left hand gripped the handrail as I slowly climbed the stairs with the box and knife held against my breast. I walked into my office and set everything on the desk. For several minutes I could do nothing but sit and stare at the box. Lifting my hand, I smoothed my fingers along its top and then grasped the tab. I gave it a firm pull and watched the perforated edges release. Opening the flap, I angled the box and gave it a gentle shake. A newspaper-wrapped bundle slid into my hand.
I peeled back the paper and dropped each sheet on the floor. And finally there it was, just as Gabe had described. The container was old, misshapen, and dirty. I could even see fingerprints smudged along its side. Though I couldn’t be certain, I thought it was one of the containers I’d left for my brother over a dozen years ago. The lid was sealed with layer upon layer of gray duct tape.
I could barely swallow when I held the container to the lamplight and saw my name etched into the tape. I would have recognized the printing anywhere—all capital letters, the slightly angled T, the two D’s leaning against each other.
Closing my eyes, I whispered, “Oh, dear Lord.”
Picking up the knife, I pierced through the tape on the underside of the lid. I held my breath and began slicing the tape from the edge. When I felt the blade hit plastic, I set down the knife and worked my fingers along the rounded lip. A faint pop sounded when the lid released.
I sat frozen.
This was it.
Slowly, I lifted the lid.
There was no letter, but the items inside revealed more than a poet’s most thoughtful prose. I removed the first item—the old brass amusement-park token I’d given Josh just two days before he disappeared. I held it to my cheek and closed my eyes for a moment, fighting against tears. Next was a rusty striped feather from a red-tailed hawk.
Wrapped in a scrap of paper was a small river stone that resembled the shape of a heart. Worn smooth and cleansed by years of rushing water, it was a milky, off-white color with a wide pink vein running through its middle. I envisioned my brother smiling as he knelt and plucked it from the Red River.
Next I removed a piece of folded fabric, plaid flannel and so old it was tissue thin. I unfolded the fabric to see two pieces of cardboard. All four sides had been taped closed. With the paring knife, I carefully sliced through three sides of the tape and opened the cardboard like the covers of a book. Inside was the lone wing of a luna moth. It was such a gorgeous shade of green that it took my breath away. Perfectly pressed and preserved, it was as if the moth had offered its wing to my brother as a gift. I swallowed hard and remembered Josh’s words: Don’t be sad. Maybe one day to a luna is like ten years to us . . .
At the bottom of the container were two more items. I was so stunned by one of them that I surely must have stared at it for a full minute before picking it up. It was a slender braid of hair, about a quarter inch in diameter and at least six inches long. It was not my brother’s coarse, curly hair. The hair in my hand was soft and fine and of a light, reddish brown color. I smoothed my fingers over the braid, my mind spinning.
I set the braid on my desk and picked up the last item, shiny and black and perfect. Lifting it by its quill, I held it to the light.
When did it happen? Had the moon and planets conferred with the stars on the day my brother arrived upon this earth? Or had an otherworldly light rewired him as he claimed?
From the corner of my desk, I picked up a framed picture of Josh when he was eight, perhaps nine years old. He was sitting on the back of the hay wagon, the left knee of his jeans sporting an iron-on patch, the sleeves of his plaid shirt rolled up to his elbows. Lord, what a beautiful child, a child whose eyes shone bright with passion for the wonders of nature, a child who trod so lightly and caused no harm to any living thing.
When had his passion ignited into his greatest fury? Not even with the clarity of hindsight could I trace my brother’s trajectory from woodland boy to warrior.
I ran my fingertip along the feather’s edge and knew, in that secret knowing place, that it had come from a raven. Holding my brother’s photograph, I looked into his eyes. “Your spirit crossed over long before you left us, and now you’re fully awake to a world that few will ever see. Is that a fair assessment? The raven delivers divine law, and you are the raven?”
Once again, I picked up the braid. And as it lay in my palm, I whispered to my brother’s photograph, “My God, you’re not alone. This hair is from a woman, isn’t it?”
As I touched each item on my desk, I was overcome.
There was no stopping the tears. I didn’t even try.
When the last of the evening light faded from the window, I returned everything into the container and closed the lid. Walking into my bedroom, I opened the door to the piazza and stepped out. The long shadows of dusk stretched across the floorboards as I lowered myself into the wicker rocking chair. With the container resting on my lap and Eddie curled up at my feet, I slowly rocked and watched the sky deepen.
We are the authors of our lives, and, through choice or circumstance, some of us leave our stories unfinished or untold. Though it’s taken me a long while to get here, I’ve come to accept that life, like the vast woodlands that surround my childhood home, is layered with mysteries.
And what of mysteries?
We sift and search and question as we try to discover our truths and the truths of those we love, and sometimes when we least expect it, a mystery we never knew existed gets solved while all else remains unanswered.
I didn’t know if, on that Thanksgiving night so long ago, my brother simply snapped or if the events of that day did nothing more than catapult him toward a destiny he had already seen charted in the constellations of his private sky.
All I knew was this: Somewhere deep within Red River Gorge, where ancient petroglyphs decorate the walls of hidden caves and treacherous terrain is guarded by a sentry of rocky cliffs, there lives a boy who believes. Exactly what he believes is unknown to me, but I suspect it’s a truth more powerful than I’m capable of understanding.
I rested my hands on the container, moving my fingertips over my name carved into the tape. Through all the years of worry and waiting, I’d been right after all. My brother was alive. And he had, in his own special way, let me know that he was not alone. Leaning back, I closed my eyes and wondered why he’d waited so long to send me a message. But then I couldn’t help but smile—because, of course, that would be just like him.
I suspected he was pleased to see the farm transformed into a wildlife rescue and rehabilitation center, though since he was such a private, singular soul, I don’t know how he felt about his name being on the sign. But the more I pondered that question, the more I supposed he probably thought it was just fine.
While watching the moon roll over the treetops, full and luminous and tinted with blue, I thought about heaven and hell and all that resides in between. So clearly I remembered the words my brother had spoken on that snowy winter’s night when he was just a boy: I don’t much care where I go when I die, as long as it’s where the animals are.
Though no doubt some might disagree, I believed examination of my brother’s heart would gain him swift admittance into heaven.
As the moon lifted higher, I pushed myself up from the chair and went back inside the house. Gathering what I needed, I slipped into a long coat. Eddie sat at the front door and whimpered, but I gave him a pat and told him no, that he couldn’t go. Not this time.
Locking the door behind me, I dropped my keys into my pocket, turned, and walked into the darkness.
I could smell it before I saw it, that unmistakable aroma of the harbor, fresh yet tinged with decay. Looking in every direction to make certain I was alone, I gathered the he
m of my coat and climbed over the guardrail.
Down the rocky embankment I went, my footing as steady as the beating of my heart. When I got as close to the water as I could, water that moved swiftly and gleamed with a silvery skin from the moon, I stood in the quiet embrace of night. A light breeze moved through my hair as I listened to the gentle lapping of the tide against the rocks.
Slowly, I unbuttoned my coat. From a length of string tied around my chest, my brother’s arrow dangled like a pendulum. Pulling it free, I smoothed my fingers over the tip, along the shaft, and across the fletching. I could barely hear my own voice when I said, “For years and years, I looked for you, Josh. I don’t understand why you wouldn’t let me find you. Now it’s your turn. I’ll be right here. Maybe, someday, you’ll come looking for me.”
With my right hand, I grasped the arrowhead and raised my arm. I hesitated for a moment and then swung back with all my might. Casting my arm forward, I opened my fingers and let go. The arrow set sail into the moonlight and then seemed to hover in midair. Just as it plunged into the water, I looked into the sky and whispered, “Menewa.”
• • •
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