“What kinds of things?” I stare at the box with mixed emotions. I miss her so much. I want to rip it open and examine every item for hours on end; that’s always what I do with any new item or piece of information I find about the mom I’ve never known, but having not been prepared for this, I’m tentative as I reach forward and lift the flaps open.
“News clippings from when she was on the honor roll and when her junior high volleyball team won Districts, yearbooks, art projects, that kind of stuff. I think that box is all from school. I vaguely remember your grandparents showing up at our tiny apartment with three big boxes of memorabilia she’d left behind at their house. We didn’t have a lot of space, so she pared it down.” Dad’s smile turns melancholy like he’s remembering that day. I’d give anything to see the stories he tells me like amovie in my head. What was her expression? What did she say? How did she feel?
They are things I could ask, and Dad would give it his best attempt to provide every answer, every detail he could recall, but it’s never enough. I want to see it, hear it, smell it.
“Oh shoot. Is that the time? I have a meeting in thirty minutes.” He sets his coffee down and gives me another kiss on the top of my head, while I’m still reeling with my thoughts; then he hurries out of the room.
Carefully, I look inside the box, uncertain what I’ll find or even what I want to find. Because there’s always some expectations with things left over from my mom. Without really meaning to, every new piece of information or item that belonged to her gets assigned a value to me.
The first thing I see is a red notebook, faded and torn around the edges. I pull it out and open it to Mom’s handwriting. It’s something I’ve seen before, and I’ve memorized her neat, loopy penmanship. Still, seeing it fills my chest with longing. I flip through it, scanning the pages quickly. It looks to be minutes for the art club. She was the secretary her junior year, then president the next. These are facts I’ve memorized about her, along with many others.
Her notes are very thorough. Each meeting is outlined with the date and time, plus attendees at the top, and bullet points for each item discussed, like a fundraiser for new art supplies.
I put it aside and more eagerly pull out the next items. Art projects, senior photos. I have my favorite one framed in my room. She was so beautiful.
As I dig through the contents, I try to imagine whyshe wanted to save certain items and what she’d say now if I were to ask her about them. Her junior year yearbook fills me with a particular sadness. I wish so badly that she were standing here with me so we could talk about the difference between her junior year and mine.
Dad does that with me sometimes. When I was about to start high school, he told me stories about how he spent most of that year eating lunch by himself because he was too shy to sit with the other kids. Or how that was the year he met his best friend, the guy I affectionately call Uncle Pete.
I’m flipping through the yearbook when a folded piece of paper falls onto the countertop. The alarm on my phone chimes. I silence it, then reach for the paper. My brows knit as I unfold it. The paper is worn and soft like it’s been handled a lot. I scan the paper completely, taking in the many colorful markers used and the cute doodles in addition to the bulleted list, before my brain begins to read properly.
“High School Bucket List.” I read the title aloud with a mix of confusion and amusement. Underneath the title there are fourteen items. They range from going to the homecoming dance to getting a piercing. I’m smiling as I read each one once and then start over. It’s like an insight into her hopes and dreams when she was my age. Next to the ones she’s checked off, she put the date next to it, so I know she made this her junior year.
Fourteen things she thought were important to accomplish. Fourteen because it was her lucky number.
It’s incredible to see all the things she did, others she wanted and didn’t. This is personal, her heart’s desires. My throat is thick with emotion as I read the list a second time.
High School Bucket List
Make a high school memory box?
Go apple picking at Annie’s Farm?
Get a piercing
Watch the sunrise from the football field?
Learn the “Thriller” dance!
Go on a double date?
Stay up all night?
Volunteer?
Travel internationally
Kiss someone under the stars
Do something scary?
Go to the homecoming dance with a date?
Go ice-skating?
Have a photo shoot with friends?
It’s only when my phone pings again, this time with a text from Claire, that I realize I’m late.
