My mom kept a small wooden box—likely a cigar box—on a high shelf I couldn't reach as a child. She would sometimes take it down to add another special memory. She also had a trunk for cherished keepsakes: my baby booties, homemade Halloween costumes, my sister's communion dress, and other items she couldn't discard. Dozens of family pictures in orange bindings, all black-and-white, were kept close to her heart. But the small box held memories that brought a few tears, and mostly smiles and sighs.
A photo shows me at six, outside the church, in a hat like Dad’s and a topcoat—it was a cold Easter. I gave her a chestnut to grow a tree, and we did. There’s a clipping of me winning the sixth-grade outstanding student award, and half of a heart-shaped necklace I gave her for her birthday. My half remains in my own wooden box.
As her passing drew near, I brought her the wooden box, and we looked at each memory. She held each keepsake, staring as if seeing it for the first time. I left the box, hoping its contents, cherished for decades, would bring her comfort.
When she passed, I hoped those memories stayed with her. I took the box home and put it on a shelf next to my own, where I could look through everything too many times to count. It's amazing to me how we live our lives with hundreds, or even thousands, of thoughts and particular moments that we forget over time. But somehow we manage to fill a small box with the memories that touched us the most.
Mike 2025 
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