In the mail today I received a box full of memories from my mother. This was a box of things she had in her attic. As I went through the box, I laughed, I had tears in my eyes, and I smiled a lot. In this box were photos… some of me as a baby, some at my high school graduation, some at the picnic the day after my graduation from college, some at my wedding, and some miscellaneous ones spread through the years. As I looked at one particular picture of myself taken when I was about 16, my first thought was “Wow, was I skinny then,” quickly followed by “And I wore way too much makeup. Why did I ever think that much makeup was attractive?”
In the box were also a pile of cards and letters I’d written to mom over the years. I laughed at one I’d given her for her birthday and in it I’d written “P.S. 39 isn’t that old.” I found that especially funny given that’s exactly how old I turned a few weeks ago and now more than ever do I believe it’s not that old. In one letter I’d written mom when I was 19 and living in Connecticut for a year I’d written that I had met several other nannies,but hadn’t met any BOYS yet. (And yes, I capitalized the whole word in my letter.) I’m sure mom was actually happy to hear that news.
There were also a few other treasures in my box full of memories. A photo I’d taken, developed myself, and matted for a project in a photography class in college. And a paper that for personal reasons was dear to my heart that I’d written for a writing class in college. I got a perfect 4.0 grade on that paper and was very proud of it.
Thank you, mom, for sending me those memories.