Remember

Closing the nightstand drawer, I hear them rattle.  Those little white enameled dentin souvenirs sorted and encapsulated in 35mm film canisters. They capture my thoughts in a time gone by, a time of innocence and youth.  Teeth.  Some of them fell out while playing on the soccer field, some in beds while dreaming, one while biting into a cob of corn, and many more in various other places.  These treasures went under pillows with anticipation of an exchange, the bestowment of gifts. 

I stop and grab one of the four canisters, and sit on my bed.  The lid pops and I pour the collection into my palm.  So small, so fragile are the baby gems.  I take my finger and roll them around.  How many years ago did I file these?  Fourteen?  More? Less?  Five children create quite a collection.  And as I consider the ages at which these were donated, my heartstrings tighten and breath escapes my chest.  Most are as small as a pea. 

             I close my eyes and imagine embracing the little nugget of a person fitted with these.  Four years old?  That’s when most of my children began to drop baby teeth and gaps became the mark of progress.  Oh, those were much different times. 

The most difficult decisions were whether to wear the Thomas the Train or Blue’s Clues underwear.  School consisted of reading an Amelia Bedelia book and drawing stick figures with heads.  “This is you, Mommy.”

“How beautiful.  What’s this?”

“That’s the dog, and that’s the cat, and here’s Daddy!  Daddy’s head is really big,” he said as he held his miniature arms arced up in the air to demonstrate how round and high Daddy’s head really was.  No matter that we owned no dog or cat, this was the perfect family in a little boy’s mind, and luckily, he didn’t miss drawing in his siblings also.

These were the days when little ones would look up at the quarter moon and ask how it got broken.  And when little fingers touched your cheeks and a sweet small voice said, “I love you," your heart melted.

“I love hearing you say that.”

“Do you want me to say it again?”  I giggle.  Yes.  Always. 

Then there was the time two little preschoolers came running up the porch stairs covered in… what is that? Poop?  Well, in their defense, there was no TV and they were sent outside to get creative. To a couple of young boys, there is nothing better than stomping and squishing the poop piles in the neighbors yard.  Watch out, Mario.

Memories always flood when I take the time to open the canister and look.  Like an Ebenezer Stone, my collection sends me back to a point in time where I am reminded to give thanks.  My children’s teeth piled become a memorial, a prompting to consider the gifts I have in each of them.  Heaven touches earth when babes say “I love you” and children cuddle you, and when a keepsake rushes these musings to the forefront of your attention.  And heaven continues to touch earth in the bond of tossing a football, and messing with the man-boy’s hair, in driving lessons, and late night conversations. I am reminded to move into beauty, to allow my thoughts to be captivated by it, to allow fondness to reclaim my affections, and my children to be cherished. 

Funny how such tiny things can evoke such warmth in a soul and I am revived.  I am awakened to the wonder of childhood and the love of family.  A whisper has reached my ears, and it says, remember.