Grandma’s Photo Box

Leo had offered to help his grandmother empty her attic before she moved to a smaller flat on Monday, but he soon realised that the job would take longer than planned. Every box seemed to hide a memory, and she kept pausing to hold things up to the light. “This is my old radio,” she said, pressing it into his hands as though entrusting him with something precious.

“That is Grandpa’s chair,” she went on, nodding towards a worn armchair by the window. “Is that chair heavy?” Leo asked, eyeing it with suspicion. “Extremely,” she conceded. “You will need someone to help you. This lamp, on the other hand, is small enough to carry, and I would hate to leave it behind.”

In the far corner, half hidden beneath a blanket, she spotted a blue box. “That is my photo box!” she cried, with the delight of someone who had found a long-lost friend. Leo made his way across the cluttered floor and lifted it with some effort. “This box is heavy too,” he said. “What on earth is inside?”

He set it down on the table and lifted the lid. “This is a photo of you,” he said, holding one up to the window. “You look very young!” Grandma smiled. “That is my sister, and that is my father,” she said softly. “It was taken long before you were born, and I remember the day perfectly.”

By late afternoon they had carried the chair, the lamp and the box down to the car, resting on every landing. “This radio is for the kitchen,” Grandma announced, “and that chair belongs in the new flat, by the window, where it has always been.” Leo was exhausted, but he felt oddly proud to have been part of the move.