Kept in a Box

Blake opened the door to his parents' attic and allowed the ladder to drop down, ducking his head out of the way. He then pulled it to full extension and began to climb up. He ascended the steps of the white, wooden ladder taking each rung gingerly, not knowing if it would support his weight. He climbed into the attic on all fours and then raised himself to his feet. The unfinished wooden floorboards creaked as he slowly walked forward. A fleet of boxes stretched out before him in all directions. He was unable to tell. How much did he need it anyway? Was it worth checking in box after box or should he just forget it? No, he really needed to find it, he decided. He started in the boxes immediately surrounding the door in the floor. He dug through them. He tried not to move things around too much, but neither did he put them back exactly as he found them in the first place. He went through two large boxes. Nothing. He started in on a third. Still nothing. He plowed on. As he dug through the fourth box, he started to become frustrated. He had gone through 4 of the 80 or so boxes there in the attic. He stopped, got up from his knees, wiped the sweat from his brow that had begun to accumulate due to the un-airconditioned attic heat, and placed his hands on his hips. He panned around the attic. Where is it? I know I put it somewhere. I can't think.

He seemed to remember that it was over near the right bay window. He went over and started to dig. First box, empty. Second box, empty. He had now been up there for 20 minutes, and, even though he knew it was probably going to be this way, he began getting impatient. He leaned back from one of the boxes and straightened up his spine while he was still on his knees. He arched and stretched his back, looked up for a moment and then dug back in. Nothing in the third box either. He began on the fourth. He started to see items that looked familiar to him. The hope began to rise. He dug more intently and quickly toward the bottom of the box. He had to have it now. He still couldn't find it. Why did he keep it buried in the bottom of a box in the attic? He pulled one more book toward the top of the box and saw it sitting there, the last book in the box. He slid the photo album up from under the other books and up the side of the box, so as not to disturb the other contents. He opened it to the middle. There was their picture. He looked at her and a younger version of himself standing next to her with his arm around her waist. He felt the tears begin to well up. He lifted the pile of books and slid the album back down the side and into the bottom of the box. He swore to himself that he wouldn't come back up to the attic to look for it again.