Hope Chest

It's covered in an intricately stitched love.  Roses touch the corners, lace trims the edges.  It's a mother's love, her fathers strength, and a box of Hope.  


There's a year book in there, with good-byes, and ambitions, and dreams.  It's from a time when we all knew who we wanted to be, and direction was whichever way we were facing.  The world was at our feet, the possibilities were endless.  It was the last of our cliques, it was the last time we would be kids.  There's a yearbook in there that was the beginning of adulthood. 

Wrapped around that book, and an album of "I do"s (that turned into "I don't"s) is a blanket, lovingly knitted for me by my great grandmother.  It swaddled me as a baby, and now swaddles broken dreams.  It holds them tight when I can do longer do the same. 


It's filled with sweet baby clothes and dreams that flourished.  It holds first words and first shoes, years of Mother's Day gifts, each one stained in tears.  There's the tiger that protected the NICU bassinette, and the silky edged white blanket, tattered with love.  


I stumbled upon it, really. It was lifelessly laying there, hugging the old hinges of my hope chest. I could barely touch it, I was stunned it was there, out of the "safe zone" of a little boys arms. The small blue elephant with a blanket body still smelled of him, its eyes scored, its patches patched over and over... I called to him, and questioned how the precious token of childhood made it's way to my room.  "I think it's time you put it away. I don't really need it anymore, and I know it goes in there, with all of your special things." 

It's a place where "special things" get put away, and Hope fills an empty space. Letters and cards, books and pictures.  Lost ones, and loved ones.   It holds not just memories, but moments - frozen in time.  I am grateful for the time and the love that fills my Hope Chest.