I Found Us Today.
Beneath birthday cards from your Great-Grandma Gifford and high-school photos of long-forgotten classmates. Buried under scrapbooks of Katherine’s 2nd-grade school papers and 2nd-grade handwriting. Hiding under yellowed “Walton Reporter” newspaper clippings and 5 or 10 old high-school journals—I found us.
Silent, still, unmoving.
To be perfectly honest, my heart stopped--just completely stopped beating. No air. No sound. There we were. 20 years of “us” lying in a tiny shoe box wrapped with a ribbon. How could something so innocent jolt my insides to the core?
I wasn’t sure what to do. I hadn’t touched us in years. I hadn’t looked at us, or smelled us, or felt us. I couldn’t. It was all too painful. And now there we were, inches away from my fingertips. I could almost feel the box pull my hand as if it were a magnet.
My hand never moved. I closed my eyes, but never moved my fingers away from the peach ribbon that had caressed my wedding bouquet. I closed my eyes, suddenly remembering to breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
As I slowly untied the ribbon, removing the lid, it was as if we were again. Memories engulfed me. All of it. Everything at one time. Dancing at our wedding, Dad’s funeral, the smell of a newborn baby girl…I actually had to sit down I felt so dizzy. Was it possible that the ribbon—that tiny faded and frayed lace, peach ribbon, was strong enough to contain us? How could that be?
I saw first days of school and a little tow-haired Katie dressed in a print blouse and blue jeans. I saw a blue Ford Escort—our first car. I smelled your cologne—so strong and real—it was as if my head still rested on your shoulder. I tasted the salt on your lips and for a second? For one split second? I felt the love.
Perhaps 30 seconds had passed—and yet—a lifetime. Not even realizing I was crying, I held leftover wedding invitations to my chest and wiped away the tears. I clung to your love letters—hundreds of them—and surrounded myself with the love that once was.
I Found Us Today.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
I Found Us Today
I Found Us Today.
Beneath birthday cards from your Great-Grandma Gifford and high-school photos of long-forgotten classmates. Buried under scrapbooks of Katherine’s 2nd-grade school papers and 2nd-grade handwriting. Hiding under yellowed “Walton Reporter” newspaper clippings and 5 or 10 old high-school journals—I found us.
Silent, still, unmoving.
To be perfectly honest, my heart stopped--just completely stopped beating. No air. No sound. There we were. 20 years of “us” lying in a tiny shoe box wrapped with a ribbon. How could something so innocent jolt my insides to the core?
I wasn’t sure what to do. I hadn’t touched us in years. I hadn’t looked at us, or smelled us, or felt us. I couldn’t. It was all too painful. And now there we were, inches away from my fingertips. I could almost feel the box pull my hand as if it were a magnet.
My hand never moved. I closed my eyes, but never moved my fingers away from the peach ribbon that had caressed my wedding bouquet. I closed my eyes, suddenly remembering to breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
As I slowly untied the ribbon, removing the lid, it was as if we were again. Memories engulfed me. All of it. Everything at one time. Dancing at our wedding, Dad’s funeral, the smell of a newborn baby girl…I actually had to sit down I felt so dizzy. Was it possible that the ribbon—that tiny faded and frayed lace, peach ribbon, was strong enough to contain us? How could that be?
I saw first days of school and a little tow-haired Katie dressed in a print blouse and blue jeans. I saw a blue Ford Escort—our first car. I smelled your cologne—so strong and real—it was as if my head still rested on your shoulder. I tasted the salt on your lips and for a second? For one split second? I felt the love.
Perhaps 30 seconds had passed—and yet—a lifetime. Not even realizing I was crying, I held leftover wedding invitations to my chest and wiped away the tears. I clung to your love letters—hundreds of them—and surrounded myself with the love that once was.
I Found Us Today.
Beneath birthday cards from your Great-Grandma Gifford and high-school photos of long-forgotten classmates. Buried under scrapbooks of Katherine’s 2nd-grade school papers and 2nd-grade handwriting. Hiding under yellowed “Walton Reporter” newspaper clippings and 5 or 10 old high-school journals—I found us.
Silent, still, unmoving.
To be perfectly honest, my heart stopped--just completely stopped beating. No air. No sound. There we were. 20 years of “us” lying in a tiny shoe box wrapped with a ribbon. How could something so innocent jolt my insides to the core?
I wasn’t sure what to do. I hadn’t touched us in years. I hadn’t looked at us, or smelled us, or felt us. I couldn’t. It was all too painful. And now there we were, inches away from my fingertips. I could almost feel the box pull my hand as if it were a magnet.
My hand never moved. I closed my eyes, but never moved my fingers away from the peach ribbon that had caressed my wedding bouquet. I closed my eyes, suddenly remembering to breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
As I slowly untied the ribbon, removing the lid, it was as if we were again. Memories engulfed me. All of it. Everything at one time. Dancing at our wedding, Dad’s funeral, the smell of a newborn baby girl…I actually had to sit down I felt so dizzy. Was it possible that the ribbon—that tiny faded and frayed lace, peach ribbon, was strong enough to contain us? How could that be?
I saw first days of school and a little tow-haired Katie dressed in a print blouse and blue jeans. I saw a blue Ford Escort—our first car. I smelled your cologne—so strong and real—it was as if my head still rested on your shoulder. I tasted the salt on your lips and for a second? For one split second? I felt the love.
Perhaps 30 seconds had passed—and yet—a lifetime. Not even realizing I was crying, I held leftover wedding invitations to my chest and wiped away the tears. I clung to your love letters—hundreds of them—and surrounded myself with the love that once was.
I Found Us Today.
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