Father's Ladder

         Father’s ladder is very big. Bigger even than Joseph. He’s four years and eight months older than me. When I’m big I’ll play in the tree house.
         I came back to the old house the other day. It was dank, decrepit. The roof had warped inward; the paint had long shed itself from the decaying timber. That tree where the ladder once stood had been cut down some time ago. The lawn did not look too bad; some kind soul had mowed it recently. Yet, this did little justice to what was once a fortress; a castle; a palace; to my childish imagination—now a dilapidated wreck.
         I walked around to the side gate, or rather the two rusty hinges that still clung to the remains of a timber fence. Stepping over the threshold of the back garden I saw there, in the very far corner, a tiny building, the weather cock on top swinging sporadically. One of the windows was slightly cracked, and some of the red tiles had fallen off, but otherwise it was in surprisingly good condition. An old rusty padlock hung from the door. My father’s shed.
         But I can’t. Not yet. I’m too small to climb the ladder. I’m not allowed in there…
I pulled out the key Joseph gave me, it was long and slender, old fashioned, matching the rusted bronze of the padlock. It went in surprisingly easily, yet turned quite stiffly. Twang! The springs of the lock unfurled with a click. No other fastenings held the door secure; it now hung slightly ajar as if to welcome this familiar face from a long and distant past.
         Walking in, the gloom gave way to a musty odour of lost years, blanketing any remote hope of olfactory gratification. Yet the familiarity of the room that presented itself pervaded any fear of death’s stale hand destroying my nose. My father’s workbench, still strewn with a selection of rare and antique paraphernalia—skillful as an engineer, his passion was for mending other people’s broken memories.
         This key will work. It’s big and gold like the lock. Joseph says I can’t touch it. I don’t care what he says. He’s just a boy. I’ll show them I’m not too small.
         I could see that the shed had not been opened for quite some time. Dust had accumulated almost half an inch thick; hiding any otherwise exposed surface. On breathing in, a battalion of particles invaded my nose, sending stinging tears to my eyes. Blinking away the hay-fever, I turned to see the old clock hanging next to the cracked window, telling me it was 3:51. As if to challenge its authenticity, I glanced at my wristwatch; 5:13 pm. Not that it mattered anyway. The old clock had stopped quite some time ago.
         I’ll get the ladder. I’ll show them. It’s heavy, but I can do it. Why does Mother make me wear these sandals? They’re no good for lifting. It hurts. Too heavy…slipping. No…no!!
         Perhaps it was time to leave. It would be getting dark soon, and it’s a long journey home. As I turned to leave, I noticed standing there, in the shadows a familiar figure, faceless in the dark, yet so many memories of what I couldn’t have. Grey, flakey skin, arms that always wanted me to reach for the sky. Yet—this time, I did not feel nearly so small. As if… as if somehow I had grown up. There was no longer a need to prove myself. I smiled at the familiar figure that had always stood there, seeming so inaccessible—my father’s ladder. I smiled at it for the last time. Too old to stand on, it would be taken to the recycling depot tomorrow.