For today’s prompt, I suggest a fictional story—however long or short you wish it to be—that starts with the following paragraph:
Going through the contents of my mother’s safety deposit box is a journey a child rarely, if ever, gets to take through a parent’s mind. Here she put the things she thought important and precious, neatly laid out in one, little metal box. A “strong” box, as they used to call it, tucked away in a bank vault behind multiple doors with multiple locks, combinations and passport codes, all requiring three people with three matching keys, and none of it accessible until I proffer three official forms of identification to prove I’m me. People protect the tender secrets of their hearts with less embattlements.
My first poem with my handwriting; big brother’s first pair of shoes, size 23; little sister’s tiny socks, our hair when she first cut them, our medals and ribbons, even though some of them were just for the 10th place, old passports, photographs and some other documents. Oh mother, I miss you so, your soft voice which could be loud when you wanted us to get them right, the way you brushed and braided our hair before going to school, and no matter what, you were on our side. Whatever I do, I could hear your advice that I could do it, that I am strong and that I won’t be given something I couldn’t handle. Rest in peace now, our beautiful mother.