Unpacking takes forever ((One-shot))
There was always that one box that never got unpacked, no matter how many years you stayed in one place. The one box in the corner, the one that you'd get to if you had the time, which was never. It picked up cobwebs and dust bunnies, and yet still it couldn't be tossed, because what if there was something in there that you needed? That, of course, you'd never needed in all of the years it was sitting in the corner.
Grant decided to finally tackle that box. Years ago, he had gone back to Montana, and brought back some things with him. Most of them had been of a practical nature, books and papers and reference materials that had been immediately unpacked and neatly lined up on the bookshelves. The lone remaining box he had brought back for sentimental reasons. He knew that there were mementos of some sort inside, but had long ago forgotten the specific contents. Whatever they were, it was time they found a home.
He pulled loose the brittle packing tape, and was completely unsurprised to find more books. Irritated with himself now, he stacked the books on the floor next to the box. Of course it would be full of books. What else would he have kept? All this time he'd thought there had been something important in there.
Something about the books caught his attention, and he picked up a dusty paleontology tome to take a close look. There was a gap in the pages, a thick piece of paper stuck in the middle. It was a photograph, one that had been in there for so long that the print had transferred to the picture.
Under the words etched in reverse was a picture of a young woman in a white dress, smiling and waving at the camera. Quickly he flipped through the other books and pulled out the photos that had been hidden inside. Grant had never had the urge to keep photographs from the past, but some were too valuable to part with. He remembered now, carefully placing the pictures in a place where he'd eventually find then again, if he cared to look. A dozen photographs were all that was left of his first and only marriage.
The ceremony had been small out of necessity. They had been poor students, married in the summer before graduate school. The biggest expense had been helping his parents and brother come up for the wedding, and out of necessity the guest list had been quite small. But everyone who appeared in the photographs was happy to be there on that day.
The first photo had been Kirsten, after her mother and sister had gotten her ready. There were the customary snapshots of the wedding party, the families, and the cutting of the cake. The picture that stood out, though, was the one taken after the ceremony, after the reception had started to die down. A picture of them sitting together, her leaning against his shoulder, them finishing their first day together as husband and wife.
Grant stacked the photos together, tucking the last one on the bottom of the pile. The books he could put away but the pictures were still without a home. They probably always would be. So he did what he'd done years before, and tucked them into the bookshelf, where he'd find them again eventually.
Grant decided to finally tackle that box. Years ago, he had gone back to Montana, and brought back some things with him. Most of them had been of a practical nature, books and papers and reference materials that had been immediately unpacked and neatly lined up on the bookshelves. The lone remaining box he had brought back for sentimental reasons. He knew that there were mementos of some sort inside, but had long ago forgotten the specific contents. Whatever they were, it was time they found a home.
He pulled loose the brittle packing tape, and was completely unsurprised to find more books. Irritated with himself now, he stacked the books on the floor next to the box. Of course it would be full of books. What else would he have kept? All this time he'd thought there had been something important in there.
Something about the books caught his attention, and he picked up a dusty paleontology tome to take a close look. There was a gap in the pages, a thick piece of paper stuck in the middle. It was a photograph, one that had been in there for so long that the print had transferred to the picture.
Under the words etched in reverse was a picture of a young woman in a white dress, smiling and waving at the camera. Quickly he flipped through the other books and pulled out the photos that had been hidden inside. Grant had never had the urge to keep photographs from the past, but some were too valuable to part with. He remembered now, carefully placing the pictures in a place where he'd eventually find then again, if he cared to look. A dozen photographs were all that was left of his first and only marriage.
The ceremony had been small out of necessity. They had been poor students, married in the summer before graduate school. The biggest expense had been helping his parents and brother come up for the wedding, and out of necessity the guest list had been quite small. But everyone who appeared in the photographs was happy to be there on that day.
The first photo had been Kirsten, after her mother and sister had gotten her ready. There were the customary snapshots of the wedding party, the families, and the cutting of the cake. The picture that stood out, though, was the one taken after the ceremony, after the reception had started to die down. A picture of them sitting together, her leaning against his shoulder, them finishing their first day together as husband and wife.
Grant stacked the photos together, tucking the last one on the bottom of the pile. The books he could put away but the pictures were still without a home. They probably always would be. So he did what he'd done years before, and tucked them into the bookshelf, where he'd find them again eventually.