“It’s a good idea.” She picks up an empty shoebox and holds it out to me. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”
I sit down on the floor across from her. She’s already covered her shoebox in purple construction paper. “I came over here to tell you I was thinking about finishing my mom’s list.”
Claire grins.
“You already knew?”
“I wasn’t positive, but you had that glint in your eye like something was brewing in your big brain. Plus, it’s a really fun idea, and I’ve been dying to use these new paint markers.” She holds up a pack of bright-colored markers still in the package.
“Sometimes I think you know me better than I know myself.”
Her smile widens. “So, tell me what you’re thinking about the list. Are you going to do all fourteen things or just the ones she didn’t cross off?”
“I’m not sure. All, I think. With a few exceptions.”
A crease forms between her brows as she furrows them. “Which ones?”
“The ones that require a date.”
Claire’s laughter is light and airy. I didn’t even realize I was carrying stress from discovering the list and then analyzing my mother’s life, but sitting with my best friend now, I feel better than I have all day.
“I think you should do all of them. Especially the ones that require a date.”
I shake my head adamantly. “No way. I’m not jeopardizing something like this. And who would I even kissunder the stars or go to the homecoming dance with? It’s only a few weeks away. And I have the SAT—”
“Okay. Okay.” Claire holds up a hand. “I got it. No dates.”
We fall quiet, and I watch her as she writes her name across the top of the box in white and then adds gold accents.
I decide to make my memory box blue, so it coordinates with the school colors. Using light blue construction paper, I cover the outside and inside, then use markers to decorate it with little megaphones and pom-poms. I even get Claire to write my name on the top like she did hers. It looks way better in her handwriting.
After an hour, the floor is a mess with scraps of paper and glitter, but our boxes are done, and I feel better than I have all day.
“Thanks for this.”
“You’re welcome. It was actually really fun. Your mom had great ideas. Just like you.”
The comparison to my mom makes me smile as much as the compliment.
“Have you ever made a bucket list?” I ask her.
“Me?” She shakes her head as if the idea is ludicrous. “I think the idea is fun, don’t get me wrong. But you know me. Before this year, it would have all revolved around skating.”
I chuckle softly. “Fourteen championships to win?”
“Yeah, basically.”
“You could make one now.”
“Or I could just help you with yours.” She holds up her finished memory box.
“Fair enough.”
* * *
The weekend flies by. By Monday I’ve reached full bucket list obsession mode. During classes, I stare at my mom’s list, barely hearing the teacher; after cheer practice I make my own, and then immediately crumple it into a ball. I like the idea of my list being unique, but I also want to feel like I’m doing the things she didn’t check off.
I want to finish it for her. Not only because it feels like a way to honor her, but also, I think it will help me see more of the world through her eyes. She died when I was just a baby, so I don’t remember her. Everything I know about her is filtered through someone else’s memory. This feels like something from her to me. A piece I can have for myself.
