Turn to your co-workers, kids, Facebook friends, family — anyone who’s accessible — and ask them to suggest an article, an adjective, and a noun. There’s your post title! Now write.
“Honey, whose chest is this in the attic?”
“Are you sure it’s not yours? You have so much stuff that you don’t even remember buying.”
But I’ve never seen this before – I thought. Maybe she was right, maybe this was mine. My mother always told me that I had a hoarding problem. I can’t help myself when I see garage sales; it’s like being a kid at a candy store.
I tried to move the chest to the center of the attic, but it weighed a ton. What did I put in here? Curious to see what could possibly weigh so much, I tried for the latch.
“Can you bring me a hammer, please? The latch is stuck.” While she rummaged through the draws, I analyzed the chest. There was engraving on the back of it; it seemed to be Latin. I guess that Latin class was useful after all. I took a closer look and read the words: Do not open.
“Here’s the hammer.” She reached her hand out.
“Thanks, now to see what is in this chest.” I swung the hammer with full force, but to no avail. Second swing, still nothing. Finally, on the third swing the latch broke off. I opened the chest slowly, half-scared to learn what might be in there.
Dust came rushing out of the chest, filling both my wife’s and my lungs. After the dust settled, the contents of the chest revealed itself.
“Is.. It.. A book?” She asked. As I reached my hand in the chest, I felt a tingling sensation in my fingertips. Picking up the book, I blew the dust off.
“This book looks as old as your grandmother,” I laughed.
“That’s not funny. Just open the damn book.”
To be honest, something inside of me was telling me not to open it, to just put it back and leave it. Before I could say anything, my wife snatched the book out of my hand and opened it.
“Honey, you’re not going to believe this. This is the original bible!”