Digging in the Darkness of the Night

I sat down on the cool, prickly grass, letting the harsh wind of the night blow my long black hair into my face. All I had to see was the soft glow of the moon, which dimly illuminated the small hole I had just dug in the back corner of my fathers backyard. Laying down my rusty shovel, I breathed in the cool midnight air, letting the freezing air fill my lungs and make me shiver. This feels right, I thought, untying the sweatshirt knotted around my waist and putting it on to cover my goosebump covered arms. With careful hands, I grabbed the small tin box next to me and gave it one last hard look. The colorful drawings of ponies and children which had once adorned the box had long since rubbed off, leaving nothing but a swirl of red and yellow. No amount of weathering, however, could scratch away the small engraving on the bottom which read “Good luck on your adventures- Mom.” Yeah, no one is going to miss this, I thought, and I gently placed the old tin box into the small hole in front of me. I stood up and grabbed my shovel before pausing. I looked back at the undervalued object, lying in the cold dirt, and finally realized the weight of what I was doing. I had been planning this for a week, but not once had I thought about what would happen after this box and its contents were hidden from the rest of  the world. What if I never come back here again? What if my father finds it and yells at me? What if no one finds it, and it slowly rots away in the mossy dirt becoming riddled with rats and bugs. That image in my head was almost enough to convince me to grab the cold box out of the grass and run back into the warmth of my home never to think of the hole in the ground again. But there was a little voice in my head, telling me that this was a good idea, that this would be worth it, that I would look back on this day with nostalgia, and not regret. So I left the old box where it was, and slowly began to cover my prized possession with the mound of dirt which had haphazardly formed as a result of my digging. Bit-by-bit my box was being hidden from the rest of the world. The more I covered it, the more I felt ready to let it go. After a half an hour, the box was completely out of my sight, but I continued to fill the whole until it looked exactly like it had when I began my digging. My hands were covered in splinters from the rough wood of the handle, dirt was splattered all over my legs, and sweat dripped down my face. I took one last look at what I had done, saying one last goodbye to the object which now sat half a foot under the ground, hidden in a small tin box which no one but I would miss. I leaned the rusty shovel on the side of the garage, praying no one in the house could hear the soft thud it made as it hit the aged tin siding. I then casually walked back into the house, hoping no one would care about the new patch of dirt which had magically appeared in the backyard overnight. I’ll just say the dog was digging for a bone. I carefully opened the squeaky sliding glass door which stood between me and the rest of my family, and stepped quietly into my house, walking into the bathroom at the other end of the hallway. Even in the dark, I could see the trail of dirt which was left behind me and I sighed. I’m going to have to clean that up later, aren’t I? Once I was in the bathroom, I wet a soft washcloth, and washed off the dirt which caked my skin. All my scrubbing splashed wet dirt onto the white subway tile, so I grabbed a paper towel, and wiped the mud off the walls. Once I was done, I cleaned up the dirt trail I had left from my walk into the bathroom. I walked across the first floor of my house with soft footsteps, cringing whenever the time-worn floorboards creaked. I arrived at my room, stumbled past the cardboard moving boxes stacked on my floor, and climbed in between the fluffy blankets which covered my bed. I calmly drifted to sleep, with the memory of placing my time capsule into the ground fresh in my head.

Every day, archeologists dig through the ruins of ancient civilizations, looking for artifacts which might tell them what those people were like. They spend 8 hours a day searching for what are essentially ancient, slightly broken time capsules. These little time capsules tell the stories of those civilizations which are no longer standing, stories which we can no longer hear in person. When it came to choosing my own artifact, I wasn’t really sure what to choose. Finding a single object which can tell your story turned out to be a lot harder than I expected it to be. After a lot of thinking, I finally found the one thing which truly represented who I was.

 -10 years later-

The spattering of the outdated U-Haul’s engine could be heard from anywhere and everywhere in the neighborhood. The rusty truck pulled into the neglected driveway, and the front door opened, letting out a small Beagle which proceeded to dart down the street, chasing after the squirrels and birds which sat in the trees. His owner, Marcus, went running after him, and grabbed him as he stopped to smell the lamp post at the end of the street.

“Come on, Buster, let’s go inside,” he said, picking up his furry dog, and carrying him to their new house. Marcus opened the thick wooden door, cringing at the loud screech it made when it was pushed. The time-worn floorboards creaked as he made his way toward the back of the house, and the sliding glass door let out a small squeak as it was opened. Marcus put his dog down on the overgrown grass, and left him to play around in the backyard while he started to unpack his belongings, bringing life back into the cold and empty house. 

A half an hour later, Marcus checked on his dog, and found him digging in the back corner of the yard, kicking up dirt onto the rotted wooden fencing.

“Hey, Buster, stop that!,” Marcus yelled, running across the backyard as the prickly grass rubbed against his bare ankles. He pulled his dog away from the hole he had dug. He looked to see what his dog had been digging at, and noticed the glint of something metal hidden under the dirt. He grabbed at the metal, and pulled out an old tin box. He examined it with a puzzled look, and traced his hand over the inscription at the bottom.

“Good luck on your adventures- Mom,” he read aloud. “Huh”. He opened up the box, and looked to see what was inside. He reached his hand into the box and pulled out a small photo. The photo showed a young girl with long black hair, looking up from inside a ditch with a shovel and brush in hand, smiling from ear to ear next to her mother.

“Aww, thats cute,” Marcus said. “Is this what you were looking for Buster?,” he said, turning to his dog with the tin box and photo in hand. He looked at the objects in his hand once more. 

“Hey, this is actually a really nice tin,” he said. Marcus gently placed the photo back in the box and walked into his house. He wiped the dirt of the tin box, and placed it onto a shelf which was mounted to the wall in his living room.

“Perfect,” he said, taking a step back and looking at his newest decoration. And just like that, the box had  finally found its home.