First grade, second grade, third grade, fourth.
The memories packed in the cupboard.
Pencils and glue and hair ties too.
Tape and markers and super balls to bounce.
Barbies and papers and trinkets and a bell.
Two cupboards filled to the brim.
Full of memories from the life of a kid.
Standing, nightgown on.
Tinkering and playing and thinking out loud.
Far off places and toys that talked.
Books of angels and animals and even rocks.
Stickers and lip gloss and dice.
Standing there for hours playing until she knelt.
Imagining and singing and laughing to herself.
When she was done she shut the cupboard and said goodnight.
Just because she got older didn’t mean she discarded her belongings as junk. Far from it.
She stored more memories.
The cupboards are full.
It’s been over 16 years.
I can’t clean them out.
It makes me miss her being little still.
The life she made. The memories she made.
A huge part of her childhood is buried in there.
She won’t let them go.
It’s something I can’t bear.
The child who is now an adult.
The child who entertained herself for hours.
The child, self-sufficient in everything she did.
The child who grew up.
And the mom who did too.
The child who still peeks into those cupboards and laughs out loud.
Memories of more simple times.
Memories of fun and laughter.
Memories of a lifetime.