I’m cleaning out the attic in very small stages, usually early morning, since the Houston heat keeps me from spending much time there. It hasn’t been bad. In fact, I feel like I’ve been on an archaeological dig, unearthing books, papers and other artifacts from the past, each requiring at least a moment of reminiscence before I cast them into the “save” or “dispose of” pile. The boxes have sat there, as undisturbed as a layer of rock, for over two decades, and that was fine with me. My hand was forced when we decided to downsize our home.
I’ve come across a number of boxes of baby clothes, which are of particular interest to me right now, and I find myself lingering over each. Yesterday I found Emily’s first Christmas outfits—a candy-cane-striped sleeper with matching elf hat (sorry, Em) and a red velvet dress and patent leather shoes. So tiny. I laughed at the scuffed knees of most of her pants, as I remembered her crawling furiously across the floor on her way to learning to walk. I even came across a note that my sister-in-law had enclosed with a box of clothes she’d sent after her daughters had outgrown them. I can only sort for so long, and the heat really isn’t to blame. Not sure what the emotion is…unbounded love, a sense of fleeting time, excitement over a new baby, pain at the realization (in just a few cases) of my bad taste in clothes, all of the above. I saved the hat.
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