She looked at me.
“Thank you.”
Then she stepped inside.
Robert wisely stayed behind us.
I took Amelia upstairs.
On the top shelf of the hall closet sat a cardboard box that had followed me through three moves.
Claire’s box.
I could never throw it away.
I could never fully unpack it.
So I had carried it from house to house for more than two decades.
I placed it on the bed.
Some photographs and letters were missing because Robert had already delivered them.
But most of Claire was still there.
Her faded college sweatshirt.
An old recipe book with flour permanently trapped between the pages.
A scarf she once believed made her look sophisticated.
A small wooden jewelry box.
Amelia picked up the scarf.
“I’ve seen this.”
“You have?”
“There’s a photograph of Mom wearing it.”
I smiled.
“She wore it constantly for six months.”
“Then one day she announced it made her look like a fortune teller and never wore it again.”
