Boxed up memories drop into my lap, making me sneeze once really, really hard.
Tiny cups meant for doll house tea time hold so much more than imaginary drinks with one lump of sugar.
An old fashioned loo with pull-chain for flushing, claw-foot tub, and pedestal sink.
Tiny bed and dresser, sofa and chairs, piano.
A hand-carved mailbox with my maiden name etched into the side.
They were mine once.
Now they are hers.
Dolls and blankets and plush toys a part of my past or his weave their way back into our lives.
Decades old Hot Wheels still roll and puzzles still have all of their pieces.
Rainbow xylophones clang as loudly as they did thirty years ago.
Ponies are faded and chipped, but still ready to ride.
I take a moment to scroll through our pictures, our days documented for family and friends to see.
(But – really – mostly for me, for us).
Gratitude pours over me as I look at our days in photographs.
Oh, how I wish I could capture it all.
I try to remember – remember every single minute of the good.
(And even some of the bad.
Because without the bad, the good wouldn’t taste quite as sweet.)
We laugh. We giggle. We run.
We splash in puddles, dance in the rain.
We cuddle. We act silly. We create.
We make big memories of small things.