Secret place

 We called it our secret place way back when. It was an abandoned small neighborhood store her great aunt Me-Me owned that closed after her death at the age of ninety-two. Everything remained the same inside for years after her death because, sorry to say, no one cared what happened to it. It had no value, as everything was in need of repair, so it sat there with the cobwebs and dust undisturbed except for us.

We were both sixteen when we first went inside. She had found a key that unlocked decades of emptiness. The small building was nestled between two other stores at the Time: a barbershop that closed years ago and a small hardware store with boarded-up windows. I remember walking in  and thinking, "Time does have a way of standing still."

The smell of all things old filled my nose as she took my hand and led me around. She told me she remembered coming there as a child visiting her great aunt and helping herself to penny candies, which remained untouched and rotten on the counter. Our footprints on dusty wooden floors followed us to a small kitchen where her aunt would make treats of all kinds that she wrapped in paper with a red ribbon tied around them and displayed next to the candy jars.

The wooded shelves behind the  counter were still filled with canned goods, their labels faded, once colorful fabrics, dry goods, and burlap sacks. There were brooms made of straw and assorted toys under a small Christmas tree, now just a piece of wood with a pile of dead needles.

A narrow staircase led to her aunt's bedroom. It seemed she was a bit of an eccentric and collected a lot of stuff over the years, some still in the boxes they came in, gathering more dust. Old hat boxes, umbrellas of old with fancy lace and elegant sets of gloves, some with encrusted bling, and a closet bursting at the seams with dresses and gowns and dozens of shoes that were never worn.

Look at me, she said as she entered the room draped in a full-length mink coat and matching hat. I remember her wearing this when she came to visit and thinking someday I'd have something like that. Oh, well, at least I had a chance to wear it once. There were boxes of old polorides of family, friends, and kids who came to her store. She loved kids but never had any of her own and was known around town as the old maid.

Look at this, I said, handing her a picture of her aunt holding the arm of a soldier in uniform. On the back was written, "My one and only love." She told me she asked her Grandmother about the man, and she told her they were madly in love, and when he died in the Great War, her heart died along with him.

The store became our own museum as each time we went there, we found more and more stuff that told us of her past and how, eventually, she retreated into herself and never went outside but remained behind closed doors, dying a little more each day.

Her Grandmother found her lying on her bed in a beautiful red dress and a new pair of shoes, wrapped in a fur coat and matching hat. She said she had a smile on her face and held tightly in her frail hand the picture of her one true love. Knowing that we felt like we were disturbing a sacred place. We never returned until years later when the city bulldozed the three small stores, making way for something new. We watched as the little store came crashing down until nothing remained except for some broken penny candy jars and a lifetime of sadness.

Mike 2024

This story is based on truth. My first love and I often went to her aunt's store. It started as a place to be alone and do what young lovers do. But as we discovered more about her aunt, we began treating the store as a place of memories we didn't want to disturb. Rest in peace, Aunt Me-me.