I once stored my dreams in a box.
When I was a college senior, my parents gave me a hope chest for Christmas. Once called a trousseau, the chest is a small hinged box traditionally used to hold items a woman intends to use once she is married. In other words, an outdated custom by most modern-day standards.
But, 31 years ago, the chest seemed like a good idea. Somewhat single with an uncertain future, I figured I had nothing to lose by storing a few pieces of Villeroy & Boch dessert plates, kitchenware and a Julia Child cookbook in my wooden box of wishes.
I’ve kept the chest though removed those long-ago items, replacing them with new trinkets and whatnot. This past weekend, I decided to take a look inside it. That’s when I realized this cedar-lined trunk was never about dreams, marital or otherwise.
As the rain started to fall last Sunday afternoon, I kneeled down beside the black lacquered chest that is currently serving as a coffee table next to the Christmas tree in my living room. Opening the lid, a flood of memories poured out as if they had been securely locked away.
Furniture does this to me. A couch is not just a couch; it’s the antique loveseat on which I sat to meet Mike’s mother in her family room for the first time. Or the spindle-legged mahogany side table mom placed in every foyer in every home we lived in topped with a festive holiday candy dish. And the twin beds in my son’s room, the same beds shared by Mike and his brother when they were little.
So, yeah, I kind of get attached to things.
And, boy, did I have a ton of things stored inside the chest. Our daughter Gilly joined me on the floor as I pulled out one item after the next.
“Oh my gosh!” was our repeated response as we looked inside our treasure trove.
Mostly, the contents were family keepsakes. A framed photo of Gilly’s dance recital when she was 5 years old. Griffin’s baby book. Mike’s hiking agenda for his father-son North Carolina trip. The ceramic glazed horses the kids made in a summer camp pottery class. Even a couple of my “disco ball” martini stirrers I made for my 50th birthday dance party made the hope chest cut. And lots and lots of handwritten and typed family letters.
An hour later, I had created several piles of mementos on the floor. It is temporarily stored in my hallway closet, and soon I’ll move the personal treasures into totes for safekeeping. Every family member will have his or her own storage container to decide later what to keep and what to discard.
For a while I was seriously channeling Marie Kondo’s bestseller “The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up.” I kept more than Kondo would prefer. As I held each precious souvenir of my family’s life, I time-traveled to the exact moment when that piece first existed. I was a young mom again. My son was a high school freshman. My daughter, a giddy 3-year-old discovering the ocean for the first time.
Maybe my hope chest started out as a symbol of desire, but it quickly became a repository of what my life represented, year by year, decade by decade. Yes, all those things in the chest were just things, but they were off the charts in sentimental value.
For the time being, the chest is empty, ready to be filled with something new. That, in itself, is kind of magical; the notion there’s still room to add to the personal narrative, piece by piece.