Echoes

A large, dusty plastic storage bin is wedged into the corner of our spare closet. It rests in the company of old prom dresses, a cardboard box collection, and stuffed teddy bears. To the casual observer, it may seem quite unimportant and disposable. To me, it is a storehouse of precious memories.

Inside this unglamorous container, there sits an old antique pair of eyeglasses. They belonged to my grandmother and I can't recall a time that she wasn't wearing them. Although she has been gone for many years, her memory remains alive and strong.

Beside the glasses, there lies a plaque. My oldest daughter made it for me in preschool. Her small handprint is embedded in the center. The glittery gold paint is somewhat less shiny than it use to be. I had to hold out my hands and close my eyes - without peeking - to receive this gift. The plaque reminds me that in all of her adult ways, my daughter will always be that child to me.

Tossed inside the bin is a plastic sandwich bag. It contains the first lock of hair cut from the curly head of my youngest daughter. The texture is baby fine and the color has remained strawberry blonde. I still see the tiny face and bright blue eyes that she had back then. I remember her puckered lips and the way her small hands reached for me as that first piece of hair was trimmed from her bowed head.

A frayed black and white photo is taped to the lid of my storage bin. It's only subject is an eight year old girl with red hair and freckles. She seems to have burst into a radiant smile as her picture was taken. Even now, I can still see glimpses of this little girl whenever I look at my mother. She is aged and frail now. Her hair is no longer fiery red but her smile is the same. I owe a lot to the child in this picture....

There is an old, faded Bible in this box. The name on the front is engraved in gold and the pages are yellowed and torn. The first page is inscribed with this message: "A Good and Dear Book for a Good and Dear Boy. May you always seek it's Divine Guidance." The date recorded inside is Christmas 1946. The boy is my father and the book belongs to me now. It helps me to remember that my big, tall Papa was once a child... once upon a time.

Littering the bottom of the bin are countless trophies from my husband's little league days - promises that anything can be. I also have his very first pair of eyeglasses. They were possibly worn twice before he conveniently "lost" them. There is a candle he made in sixth grade and a chain necklace he gave to me when we were kids - long before we suspected growing old together.

Also hidden in my storage box is a picture of a little boy who is perhaps four at the time the photo was taken. He is dressed in a sailor suit and his hair has been carefully combed and his tiny shoes shine. His legs are crossed and he wears a heartbreaking smile on an angelic round face. My husband would burn this picture if it were discovered among my treasures. Our youngest daughter inherited the same smile.

There are layers of childhood snapshots and black and white memories. Faces that remain forever captured on film; their poses ageless. Wide smiles and dimpled toddler grins, beehive hairstyles and greased pompadours. Our grandparents as teenagers standing beside classic cars dressed in high school jackets. Our parents - long before my husband and I were even dreamed of - in poodle skirts and penny loafers, football jerseys and bobby socks.

All these echoes of the past are stolen pieces of time. They hold memories of where we come from, who we once were, and the lives we have grown from.