Flames of guilt

The coals had cooled enough that he could poke the rubble with a stick.  The house fire had burned nearly everything in sight.

Tears had washed tracks through the soot on his face.

His mother’s home.  The home that had survived the Flood of 1927 and the tornado of 1963.  Where his grandmother had been born. Where his brother had died.  Marks on the door frame measured his own growth before that fateful summer day when he was six. His memories, as unpleasant as they were, had faded after years of nightmares. The gun. The impact. The accidental discharge.

A stick hit some metal.  A fireplace grate.  He continued to poke.

The Sheriff had come out to investigate the scene after the ambulance left.  It was ruled an accident, his mother broke down and his father ended up drinking himself to unemployment. The last he saw of his dad was right before the bus left for military school.  His hand trembled as he pushed several burned timbers out of the way. Years of therapy had prepared him for this moment.

Thunk.

There was a firebox, singed, but intact.  He put on his work gloves and lifted the burned box out of the rubble.  A short trip later and it was under the giant oak tree.   He took a swig from his water bottle. He used to rest to wash off the lock.

He sat down under the tree and stared at the box.  An hour passed. And then another.  He reached around his neck and pulled the key his dying mother had given him from over his head.   The key fit neatly into lock and with all the effort he could muster from thirty years of pain, he opened the lid.

Inside was a letter in a man’s shaky handwriting and a picture of a small boy.

Dear Son,

I failed you. I left the loaded pistol on the counter and I can’t live with what will happen to you. You will be blamed for my oversight. My mistake.  My fatal error.  Your brother loved you. I loved you.  I loved your brother. I couldn’t bear the guilt and that weakness broke me.  I’m sorry.  I pray if you are reading this letter, you will come to forgive me.

Your father.

The man folded the letter and put it in his front pocket. The sun set over the levee off toward the river.  Like the mighty Mississippi, so many tears had flowed downstream.

He put the picture of his brother in his pocket.  He then said a prayer and wished the fire had consumed the guilt he still felt inside.