Grown Children and Boxes

The boxes that are stacked downstairs dwarf the room.  Cobwebs weave from one to the other.  The labels are fading and the tape is becoming brittle.  They have been there for years, untouched and unwanted by their owners. Yet I’ve been paralyzed by the idea of getting rid of them. After all, they contain the relics of my children’s childhood.

Then, it rained.  With nothing else to do, I opened one box after another, pulled out old sweaters, musty dolls, school notebooks, decorated pillows, candles, never used presents, overused shoes. I remembered it all. Three children.  Days of excitement, illness, arguments and pure pleasure. A lifetime of memories.

And again I was paralyzed.  Wouldn’t I want to look at it all again some day even if the children didn’t want it for themselves?

Nope. It is time to lighten the room and use that space for other purposes. I have those memories.  They enrich my thoughts everyday.  And if I can’t remember every detail, I can pick up the phone and listen to the voices of those children who are now grown, but are still the most amazing part of my life.

The boxes can go.