Old objects




IT WAS a pale October morning when Kyle found himself inside Romuel’s Oldbarn again. He was a man worn by age and grief, yet he glanced around the vintage shop with youthful glitter in his eyes. 

He did not want to be there alone.

“Oldbarn’s the right place to reminisce.” Sitting behind the counter was the old shop owner, reading Bulletin Today.

“It’s cleaner now,” Kyle approached him with a box. “And Mr. Tambourine Man’s not playing.”

“Dylan had his day,” Romuel said. “Brown’s the man, but don’t tell Editha. She still loves her Dylan.”

The box contained his father’s prized possessions. Inside were well-kept vinyl records, a 1972 “Mano” license plate, a broken Rolex, a sixty-year-old war-worn flask, and a dust-skinned Remington typewriter with yellowed keys.

“If Dad’s here, he’d say Hendrix did All Along the Watchtower better.” 

The air became thick with sorrow. The two old men lost their words and did not speak.

“We lit some candles for him at Manaoag yesterday. I’m sorry we weren’t there. Editha couldn’t see Mano like that.”

He looked at his father’s things. His hands cannot let them go. What once fascinated his childhood will now sit in the most special corner of his memories. His eyes lost their youthful glitter as he recalled what his father told him decades ago. Mano said, “At least come and see me when I’m gone. Give my old objects to Romuel. I know they’re precious, but they don’t deserve an empty house.” F

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