The Hardware Store

I slowly wander down the street, as if in a daze. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a peculiar old store. Curious, I do not remember ever seeing it before. So, using the need of a hammer and a key as an excuse, I turn to enter. Looking down I see blood red and bone white tiles. The contrast of the colors makes the letters they form stick out at me like knives. Unheedingly, I pass over them. Reaching for the door, I do not find that the knob is round and smooth, but that it has an uneven surface. It reminds me of the doorknobs that were in my grandmother's garage sale last summer. As I open the door, the knob rattles and the hinges squeak. A silent bell clicks against the trim. After stopping to let my eyes adjust to the dim light, I proceed down the dark aisle. I stop and pick up a hammer. It is as light as a feather, almost as if it isn't there. To my right, nuts, bolts, and screws are assorted by size and type, and laid to rest in small wooden caskets. To my left, skeleton keys are hung on a pegboard. I naturally take a key as if I had always used skeleton keys, and walk to the cashier's counter. There I place the things I want to buy on the counter. A pale, old man rings up my bill. His stool creaks as he reaches for my money. Somehow he seems strangely familiar. Picking up the bag the hammer and key had been put in, I turn to leave. Past the keys, past the hammers, past the caskets, I cannot figure out who that man is. Out the door, over the tiles, this time reading the letters. Now I remember; this is the man's name, the name of my great-great-grandfather. I turn to reenter, but the door is locked. I peer through the frosted window and cannot believe what I see. There is a bar and a TV, tables and chairs. The only thing that has not changed is the name in the tiles. Suddenly, it all fits together, and I remember. This was the hardware store that had been owned by my family, but that had been closed over 50 years ago.