Tommy slid open the mirror robe. He leant in and dragged out the cardboard storage boxes from the back of the wardrobe. They were covered in a fine layer of dust. As he dragged the boxes out one by one across the tracks of the wardrobe, he knocked over his golf clubs. ‘Bloody golf clubs.’ Tommy couldn’t remember the last time he played golf. His handicap never got below thirty in all the years that he’d played. He decided he would have a garage sale to get rid of the junk he had accumulated over the years.
He stacked the two storage boxes on top of each other and carried them out to the backyard where he had already set a small fire in the brick barbecue. The contents of the emptied box landed in a pile in front of him. Golden flames jumped and sparked into life as he added a small branch to the smoldering fire. The smell of eucalyptus filled the air as bank books and statements, black and white photos of his mother and father in happier times were engulfed by the flames. A life which was so distant now, he could hardly remember it. So much had happened since the day he found out about Rose and William Phillips. His face hardened. He remembered his father’s dying wish for him to take care of his mother.
‘No time for sentimentality now, Tommy old son,’ he said quietly to himself. He sorted through letters and postcards and one by one he placed them on the fire. A whisper of wind sprung up and carried the ashes into the air. A burnt photo offering landed on his jumper. It was the face of his mother. It was just as well he wasn’t superstitious he thought as he flicked the ash from his jumper. He scooped up the remainder of his mother’s correspondence and added them to the fire. He wondered what had compelled him to keep the boxes, they held far too many memories. He picked up the second of the empty cardboard storage boxes and was about to throw it onto the fire when he noticed an envelope wedged into one of the corners of the box. He pulled at it and it came away. It was addressed to Rose Phillips in his mother’s neat handwriting. Tommy turned the envelope over in his hands. It obviously had not been posted but the envelope had been opened and resealed. He tore at it and read the indigo blue words written on the unlined paper. His hands shook as he held the letter in both hands; deep frown lines formed on his forehead and his lips tightened. This was a carbon copy, so who had the original? Rose? And why had his mother decided to keep a copy of the letter? Who had she expected to read it? He threw the letter to the ground, trod on it and kicked it into roaring flames.