On Saturday evening, my great aunt Mary died. I met her only once, in Upper Peninsula Michigan on the family farm where my Grandmother Sturm grew up. A sweet soul, she lived a very difficult life with handicaps and great joy. She is not the last of her nine siblings to die. There is one left – my Aunt Julie. The last of a generation and a forgotten age.

In the back of my mind for the past two years, I have had a scene to a story dwelling in vivid color. Sometimes I think it will be my bestseller – if it ever becomes a complete story and I not only write it but sell it. The scene is of an attic. In the attic sits a row of old chests – maybe two, maybe three, maybe more. Inside those chests are stories. Stories of a family, of love, of loss, of joy, of sadness, of anger, of forgiveness, of conflicts never resolved. The story of my life – the stories of the lives of others. All contained in a chest.

Chests disappeared along with corsets and pinned hair with the Victorian era. With them went old letters, worn journals, collections of a lifetime that held memories of joys and sorrows. I never thought I would find a chest of my own, but on the Sunday after Aunt Mary died my grandfather asked me to move one. I discovered a treasure.

The chest has sat in the office of my grandparent’s home for who knows how long. I’ve seen it before – probably laid stuff on it before. Grandpa has been cleaning out the office and he wanted it moved a little further into the room. For the first time I gave it more than a passing glance and asked what was in it.

“It was your great-grandparents. It came from the farm. I’m not sure exactly what’s in it,” he answered.

Well, I had to make sure the lid could still be opened from where I pushed it along the wall, so I took a peek. I only glanced among one stack of letters for Grandpa said we could go through it some other time. But I found a letter to my Aunt Paula – a love letter Grandpa said. (My Great-aunt Paula never married.) There was an old insurance policy for Sister Melania (another great-aunt who became a nun). A ziplock bag contained an old coin purse and small pair of binoculars owned by my great-grandfather and Uncs (his brother). All that in only a passing look. I can’t wait to search through the other treasures.

“Want to write a book?” Grandpa asked me as I closed the lid.

Yes, I think I do…