The map had been tucked inside the cover of an old Beano annual and still smelt faintly of coffee.
The kids, well they thought it was real and suddenly her borders were on the lawn and the geraniums were roots over leaves with the dog chipping in to help with the carnage.
All for the sake of plastic lunchbox.
‘But mum! X marks the spot!’
She couldn’t argue. Not when she’d been the one twenty years beforehand, digging up the same borders and tossing out plants without a care for what her mother would say.
The photo though… she must have forgotten she buried it. Strange that.
He’d hated photographs. Never wanted to stand still with the rest of them.
For this one he’d been sandwiched in place. Her on one side, her mother on the other. Bookends to stop him toppling over and out of the frame.
‘There’s another one. Hey, it’s Granny. Mum! Granny’s photo is in the buried treasure.’
He was smiling. She’d forgotten how he could smile, like the sun coming out.
‘Mum, why are you crying?’
She’d almost forgotten what he’d even looked like.