Buried Dreams

The air was as crisp as the amber and scarlet leaves that fell delicately through it. It was as crisp as the cardinal apples that hung on the bushy trees across the yard. 

My knees sunk slightly into the soft earth of our fenced yard as I crouched beneath a large oak tree, its trunk thick from age. I began digging into the soil with a rusty garden shovel. All around me lay a menagerie of objects: a tiny race car, a tarnished key, a painting of my family from art class, a keychain of a black dog, a letter to myself, and, most importantly, a ring. Behind them sat an old tin lunchbox. 

My dad offered to help me dig the hole for my time capsule. “Your arms might get tired from digging, sport,” he said earlier.

“Dad, I’m eleven. I think I’ll be okay,” I retorted. 

After all, he was right. I was only half a foot into the ground, caught on a thicket of roots, when my upper arms began to throb. 

“Dad!” I called. I saw him look up from his newspaper through the kitchen window, pulling off his reading glasses.

“What’s up, buddy?” He shut the sliding door behind him and pocketed his hands as he crossed the yard towards me. 

“You were right,” I half-whined. “My arms are tired.”

“Let’s see that shovel,” he reached out. “Oh, you dug a good hole though!”

“Thanks,” I smiled.

With one swift scoop, my dad broke through the roots and pulled an entire shovel-full of soil from the ground. One more scoop, and the hole was deep enough for my capsule.

“Now you’ve just got to pack up the capsule, then we can bury it,” my dad said, motioning to my collection of objects that lay splayed in the grass.

I began to pack them one by one, starting with the note to my future self so it wouldn’t get crinkled. 

“That’s a very nice ring. Where’d you get it?” He asked.

“At school. There’s a dress-up area for the girls and I found it under a shelf in the corner. It was dusty but I cleaned it up,” I explained. 

 “Did you ask your teacher if you could take it home with you?”

 “Yes. She said she didn’t even know it was there.” I held my dirty palm open and he dropped the ring on it. I nestled it carefully between the key chain and the toy car. Making sure everything was inside, I clicked the tin shut and closed the clasps. 

 It was a tight fit, but I pushed the tin deep into the hole, crumbs of soil pinging atop its silver lid. A plump earth worm squirmed on one side of the hole.

“Can I put the soil back in?” I asked my dad.

 “Of course.”

 I grabbed the rusty shovel and scooped the unearthed mound back into place, patting down the top layer and sprinkling autumn leaves on top.

“Perfect,” my dad said, grinning down at me. “What do you say we go in for dinner?” 

And we did. I spent the meal explaining to my parents how in twenty years’ time I would dig my time capsule back up, ignoring their warnings that I likely wouldn’t be living in the same house when I am 31.

And it was a good thing I ignored their warnings because, well, they were wrong. Even though my parents had moved away for a retirement of sunshine and golf, I stayed put. And now, at 35 years old, I still lived in my parents’ house. 

I had forgotten about my old time capsule. That is, until I was digging through the soil around the aged oak tree to plant a new rose bush when my shovel clinked against something metallic. A flood of unexpected recognition washed over me as I pulled the tin from the earth, swiping rogue specks of dirt off its rusted silver lid. 

Carefully, I unclicked the latches and revealed my treasures. I pulled them out one by one: a toy car, an old key, a moldy painting of a family, a tarnished keychain of a dog, and a plastic ring. I unfolded the letter last, sinking onto my heels as I read it.

Dear Future Me,

Mom told me to write down my goals and put them in the time capsule so I can see if I’ve achieved them by the time I read this. Now that you’re old, you’ll probably have finished all these goals.

 My goals are everything in this time capsule. Everything I put in is everything I’ll need to be happy by age 30: a red sports car, my own housekey, my own kids, a black dog, and most importantly, a wife.

Make sure you have them all. If you don’t have them all by now, something horrible must have happened. But I won’t do anything horrible, Future Me, so we should be all set. 

Sincerely,

Young Jacob

I gazed up at the old house, whose garage housed only a hand-me-down SUV and whose rooms were void of the laughter of children. I looked sadly around the small backyard, which did not boast a doghouse or paw prints through the soil. 

Finally, I glanced down at my left hand. My ring finger was not adorned with a gold or silver band. In fact, there was not even a tan line from one ever being there. I wrung my empty ring finger in my other hand, letting out a deep sigh. 

I sat in that position until the sky fell into dusk, wondering where it had all gone wrong. If I had stayed in that horrid job, would I have saved enough money for a new house, or a sports car? Was there a night I opted for a movie when my potential wife was at the pub? Was I to blame for letting down my younger self?

When the moon was visible over the rooftops, I rose, placed the time capsule in the rubbish bin, and headed inside to that silent, empty, old house.