The spur lay in the dust. A shadow cast a long imitation on the floor. It was hot in the attic and the air was thick. Grandma passed away 2 years ago. Grandpa passed this last spring. The family decided that the house should be put up for sale.
I was not part of that decision.
I loved Grandma and Grandpa’s house. The house was old. Grandpa had built it for Grandma in 1930. Every board told a story. His hands lovingly touch every single piece of wood.
I could feel Grandpa’s spirit here and I didn’t want to let that go.
It didn’t seem to matter to anyone else, so I was up here alone, poking through these old boxes. There wasn’t much here. Grandma stored the Christmas decorations here. There were boxes of clothes and a few nick-nacks. I found an old oil lamp and several copies of National Geographic. There was nothing of value here.
But I kept coming back to that one spur on the floor.
When I was little, I would sit at Grandpa’s feet and listen to his stories. It didn’t really matter what the story was about. Just the act of spending time with my Grandpa was enough to make me happy.
My Grandpa was Larger Than Life. I mean that in every way. He was a big man; tall and wide. He smoked big fat cigars and wore a wide brimmed straw cowboy hat in the summertime. He drove one of those long lean cars with the big fins on the back and chrome everywhere. He loved to fish and hunt. His laugh was as big as he was.
Grandpa was just a kid when WWI broke out, but he enlisted anyway. He was assigned to the Calvary. He would carry messages from encampment to encampment.
Being a little girl, my Grandpa spared me the gruesome details of battle. But he sparked my imagination with his stories of being on horseback during the war.
I could see him in my mind’s eye, flying across the fields on his horse. You could hear the battle around him and the gun smoke would hang in the air.
I bent and picked up the spur. It was cover in rust and dust. I blew some of the dust off and ran my hand over it.
Looking around the room and clutching the spur to my chest, I walked back down the steps. There was something worthwhile in the attic after all.
**This is in response to Sue Vincent’s Photo Prompt
Copyright (C) 2017 Penny Wilson