It seems odd.
Odd that memories could be stored in a stained glass box with an ornately beaded green cover, the side of the box containing a hairline crack, enduring years of being handed down from one generation to the next.
Odd that as if by holding one slightly crumpled piece of paper with the words ‘Grandma’s House’ scrawled across it in black sharpie, I could be transported to that time and place. Holding the wooden beads of her necklace while we talked in her kitchen.
It’s funny because memories are so much more than that.
More than a scrap of paper ripped out of a journal.
Yet, I continue to collect them in a box.
As if, by doing this, they will never be erased from my memory. The details, the emotions, that make them so special.
So worthy of being added to this box.
Over time, will I forget the way the sunlight hit her face, making her shine as if she were an angel?
Will I remember the unbalanced smile that caused her left cheek to crease more than her right?
When I open the piece of paper that says “Grandma’s House” in ten years, will I recall the scent of pine needles that I smelled as I approached the entryway to her home?
The smell of freshly baked apple pie which gently enveloped me in its warmth and comfort as I stepped into her kitchen?
The hot chocolate, which provided much needed soothing relief from a stressful day, sweeping away my worries as it washed down my throat, it’s warmth overtaking me?
Or will I just remember Grandma’s House.
It seems odd.