Boxed Up Memories

A cherished box, under the tree for only just a moment.

I have a small shoebox which I bring out every Christmas. It is full of very old ornaments from my grandmother's tree which I inherited in 2005. I have never seen these ornaments, except for on my grandmother's Christmas tree. I imagine inside are glass ornaments delicately wrapped in tissue, some probably too fragile to handle. Possibly, quite possibly there are some broken ones in there. It has gone through our move in 2006 and is moved out of my Christmas decoration box on a yearly basis, so it would be hard to imagine the at least one of the ornaments not making it.

Which is one of the reasons I don't want to open it. I don't want to see the breakage, the finality of it. I want to imagine my grandmother's hands wrapping each one, knowing she was the last to touch it. I want to see my Grandma, touch her, be with her, but all I have are ornaments...well, really, a box of ornaments.

I reason with myself that it would be foolish to put these cherished ornaments on my Christmas tree and put them in harm's way. (Have you met my two year-old Luke?) In fact, opening the box would probably open up some feelings I would rather push aside. Especially at Christmas. I miss her to my core, she was taken before I was ready. She would love to see these wonderful children of mine running around full of life. I have to believe a part of her is running around with them, though this is more of a pleading thought rather than an expression of faith.

So another year passes without opening the box. The lovely brown and white of a decades-old Montgomery Ward shoebox will hold many hopes for me for another year.

One day...maybe when I am a grandmother.

Merry Christmas!