This entry was posted on Friday, February 15th, 2008 at 11:17 pm and is filed under Gift Ideas. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.
Some of my favorite memories of my childhood are ones I was too young to remember. What I mean is, they are stories my parents have told over and over again, at my request, and on occasions when I would have preferred they not be shared. Tales of diaper-free runs through the neighborhood and my refusal to call my brother by name are quasi memories I hold dear to my heart.
When I was eight years old, after a usual story-telling session on my parents’ bed, I went to my own bedroom and began to write. I was a young poet, and I loved to capture memories and ideas with words. It didn’t take me long before I had penned my masterpiece: an ode, if you will, to babies.
I gave the poem to my mom and watched as her eyes began to glisten, and the tears began to fall. I hadn’t realized the impact my words would have on her. My dad read the poem as well, and while his eyes remained dry, I did see a hint of shimmer in them. From that day forward, they showed the poem to everyone who happened by the house. My mom even had a calligrapher professionally craft the poem, and she hung the mauve frame over her bedside table.
Years went by, and I forgot all about the poem. My parents redecorated their bedroom long after I moved out, and the poem never made it back up on the wall, I guess. It wasn’t something that even drifted back to memory once in a while. I had completely forgotten all about it.
When I was eight months pregnant with my daughter, my friends and family hosted the perfect baby shower for me and my soon-to-be little girl. My mom was in her glory, as this was her first grandbaby, and she went completely overboard in the gift department. She announced the last gift, and I was almost thrilled to know it was coming to an end. I was too exhausted to pay attention to the quiver in her lip and the gleam in her eye as she handed me a beautifully wrapped box.
As soon as I lifted the lid I saw a glimpse of familiar mauve. It didn’t even take me a split second to guess what was inside. Like my father I am usually not one for tears, even in pregnancy, but for this, the floodgates opened. In front of unknowing guests, I pulled out of the box the gift I had given my mother as a child.
I didn’t even need to read it; I still had the poem memorized after 22 years. I memorized that moment as well, because it will one day be a story I will share with my own daughter when she asks about the poem that hangs on her bedroom wall.
