My in-laws have two garages. Well actually, now they have three but that’s neither here nor there. At any rate, one of the garages is a vault of history. It stores furniture from grandparents and other relatives. There are boxes of old Tupperware and sewing patterns. It is a portal to the past. I could spend hours in there. Within this time capsule of family history there was a box. A very special box. It held not only items from days gone by, but items of a childhood. My hubby’s childhood. Each item had been loved and lovingly saved. From the handmade alphabet book, the knitted sweaters from grandma, the baby shoes with tiny bells on them, to the first book that my hubby ever listened too. There were pictures that accompanied the items. A little chubby cheeked boy in a blue sweater. An infectious grin and an outfit that matched daddy’s. And the tangible part of the memories were stored away in the white box with a blue lid. They had been saved for someday.
waiting for the moment when the clothes wouldn’t be to big. When the shoes could be worn. And when I could look at the smiles, taken thirty two years apart, and know that someday had finally come.