The label on the bottle declared in swirling cursive “The Lost Wisdom of Childhood”. It was a small brown glass bottle with a silver stopper, which fit like a cork with a round clear globe on top.

I came upon this bottle on a shelf in the back of my grandmother’s closet while searching for a photograph album.

It stopped me there, looking at it in the dim light, as if it was written, “drink me”, and I was Alice.

The photograph book forgotten, I reached for it with reverence, and slipped it into my pocket. With a thrilling glee within, I backed out of the closet, closed its door, and locked myself in the bathroom.

Sitting on the closed lid of the toilet in the quiet house, I retrieved the bottle and held it up to the light. Running my thumb over its label, the lettering, I discovered, was raised. Hand-written in heavy black ink. Who had made this marvelous thing, I wondered. Was it some whimsy bought in an obscure shop on a long ago jaunt to a far away place?

My grandmother was a traveler, a seeker if you will. My grandmother had a secret past, which lit her face with joy, and a quiet peace.

She had passed on a few years ago, but her things were still here, in her closet, in our family home. I had not noticed this before. Her privacy was something sacred. We felt the guilt of trespass when we thought of snooping through her dresser drawers, or in her closet. We thought of it, my sisters and I. We were curious.

Our grandmother was not a closed person though. She was the bringer of laughter, a bright witty talker, and a generous hugger.

Holding it before me, I could see there was some liquid inside. I swirled it left and right, and it appeared to be some sort of syrup. It had a sweet, sticky appearance, as it would slightly adhere to the sides of the glass bottle.

Why did I hesitate to open the stopper? Why did I not want to break the seal? I wanted to taste the wisdom of childhood, but having the knowledge of adulthood, I might know the pain of the distance between.

Ephemeral wisdom once tasted, creates a longing for something that cannot remain.

II

Enchanted, I placed the bottle carefully in the back of my vanity drawer and went back downstairs to find a chore to do. All the while my thoughts danced with the expectation of opening that bottle.

It distracted me at work. It niggled at my mind until finally I had to carry it with me at all times.

The bottle then remained in my pocket for a week. At night I would look at it, and while getting ready for bed it would sit on the bathroom stand. But during the day it resided in my pocket. The label started to wear, so I then decided that if I wasn’t going to open it, I should find a better place to keep it.

I went to the bank and got a safety deposit box. I know it seems silly to pay for a safety deposit box just for a bottle of mysterious fluid. But it had sentimental value. I wasn’t sure that if I left it in my home or in my pocket that I wouldn’t drink it down to gain that lost wisdom proclaimed on the label.

This could not go on.

***

Winter came, and long dark days. Cold that was colder than any cold I could remember crept into my bones. They said it was the Arctic Vortex. The snow banks grew without mercy. I became depressed.

The little bottle called softly to me in my sleep. Maybe there was joy in there; liquefied well-being. If I opened the bottle should I just sniff it, or should I swallow it? Were there portion sizes? I had to know.

I returned to the closet to search for clues. Under a pile of shoes against the back wall there was a small brown journal. I can’t explain the thrill I felt as I held it in my hand.

The writing inside was in faint and smeared pencil, as if the journal had been read often with someone running their finger over the lines. Someone studied this journal. I had never seen this before. It seemed as if these things were manifesting themselves in that closet as needed.

Through the hours of darkness, I turned page after page until my eyes prickled from exhaustion. It seemed the words were in some language unknown to me.

 

© April 13, 2018

By Diane E. Dockum