I found it when my grandsons and
I were cleaning out our attic. It was tucked into a corner, covered in
“What’s that, Grammy?” asked
Paul, the younger of my daughter’s boys.
His brother, Pete, sidled up to
us. “It’s just a dumb old shoebox, dweeb.”
“Oh, there’s nothing dumb about
this,” I countered.
In retrospect, I couldn’t
believe I hadn’t honored the contents of that shoebox by storing them
more neatly. Had I really been so eager to forget the pain, mingled
with the warm memories, that box had held?
“What’s in there, then,
Grammy?” Paul persisted.
“Duh, it’s a shoebox, so my
guess would be . . . a pair of dusty old shoes,” Pete said.
I wasn’t sure I should be
opening it in front of my grandsons. They were standing there, though,
and both boys—too-cool teenager Pete included—appeared curious.
Fingers trembling, I lifted the
“Wow, those are some
funny-looking shoes,” Paul remarked.