The Box

In my hall closet, there is a box hidden beneath bath towels and bed sheets. Inside the box are scraps of memories of a child I never had the chance to know. A lock of hair, some yellowed snapshots, and the black and white ink print of a foot no larger than my thumb. There was a time when I needed to open the box daily to reassure myself that the baby existed in my arms, if only for a brief moment.

I keep the box on a high shelf; crowded between old baby clothes my children have long since outgrown and the tattered, smudged drawings from their early kindergarten days. I seldom think about it until it’s time to reorganize the closet to make room for a clutter of new memories.

My hand brushes across the worn flaps, and I suddenly feel the need to open it again, despite the years that separate me from that part of my past. It has been stored in the closet for two decades, yet every time I see it, I am surprised by its presence and what it once meant to me – the hopes and dreams of a young mother carrying twins.

I lift the lid slowly, and touch the silky wisp of blonde hair inside. Folded neatly underneath the sympathy cards and letters is a small cotton blanket. My hand touches the satin edge, and I bring it to my cheek; remembering the softness of the little boy it once held.

There was a time when I believed the box was all that I had left of Jason, until the morning I caught a glimpse of him in his twin sister’s eyes. She took her first step on the side of the coffee table, and rewarded her own accomplishment with a toothless grin. At that moment, I cried for the miracle of having such a special little girl, and for the boy I’d never see take his first step, play catch with his father, splash in the surf, star in a school play, walk across the stage for his high school diploma, or escort his new bride down the church aisle.

Although I missed him, and often wondered what it would have been like to raise twins, I realized early on how blessed I was to have his twin sister, who brings so much joy into my life.

When I was younger, it was very painful to open Jason’s box. It forced me to face a loss I couldn’t understand. Now, it represents so much more. It is a reminder of the courage it took to work through the loss – something I could never have accomplished without the love of my family and the power of my faith. The box has become an important part of the healing process. Every time I sift through its contents, it strengthens me.

I will never forget Jason, or the softness of his skin when I cradled him in my arms. Although our time together was brief, he taught me a valuable lesson: the special moments we share with our children are like little miracles we can carry in our hearts for a lifetime. No box required.

Marcia is a thirty-something woman (yeah, right…) trapped inside the body of a middle-aged, menopausal mama. To read more of her writing, please visit her blog, Menopausal Mother.