Trophy

A story about holding on

Mary was 13 months old when her mother died. She didn't remember the sound of her voice or even the look of her face. She couldn't remember her smell or even the feel of her hug.

"Have your mother sign a sick note," her teachers would say when she was in grammar school. "Get a permission slip from your mom."

Mary never knew what to do.

There was a trophy her mother had won for being the kindest in her school. It sat on a high shelf in the basement of her house, too high up for her to reach. It was covered in dust and paint chips. It was one of the only remnants Mary had of her mother.

When her father found another partner years later, she began throwing out things from Mary's childhood — toys, dolls, the keepsakes Mary had treasured.

One day Mary's father's partner became ill. She lay in her hospital bed for over a week.

Mary thought she would help out by cleaning up a bit.

The basement was filthy, and the shelves were the filthiest of all. Armed with cleaning spray, paper towels, and sponges, Mary tackled the shelves, carefully picking out the clutter and moving it into organized batches.

Lights here.

Paint here.

Tools here.

She found the shelf of trophies — but only two remained from her brother's baseball years.

She even got up on her tippy toes.

Her mother's trophy was nowhere to be found.

Should I ask my father? she pondered.

"Where is the trophy, Dad?" she burst out, unable to hold it in.

Her father looked at her, his heart and mind full of despair for his partner in the hospital.

"It should be there," he said.

"It's not," Mary replied.

"Maybe I put it somewhere else."

The mood became quiet.

Mary went upstairs to her room.

Mary heard him climbing the stairs. "Yikes," he muttered under his breath.

Mary stared out at the rain.

"I remember the trophy," she thought to herself.

"I'll never be able to touch it again. I never really could."

"Maybe the memory is enough."

"No," she thought with a smile.

The memory is enough.

A story by Pemba Umoja