(Essay)
| Pearls by K. M. Fields |
One weekend several years ago, my mother and I were going through the contents of a large cedar chest that she's had since she was a teenager. Mother pulled out tattered but still colorful quilts my great-grandmother had sewn, a wedding veil, and some photos. We laughed over crayon drawings my brothers and I had presented her, and grew sentimental over a small Santa made out of green and red felt cloth glued to a baby food jar I'd made in first grade. Hidden between a lace handkerchief and a book of photographs was a small wooden jewelry box. Mother lifted it gently, opened it and smiled, and then closed it before setting the box aside without a word. I peeked inside the box and found several of these gray and dead looking things. They were hard to recognize at first. I was reminded of these things when I was cleaning out my dresser recently and came across a small box of my own. I opened the lid and poured the contents into my hand. Memories came rushing back. I had seen these things before, years ago, or things like them, in my mother's jewelry box. Looking at these dried, gray husks in my hand, it was hard to believe that these tiny things which suddenly loomed so large in memory, these tiny baby teeth, were once living things in my children's mouths, crunching popcorn and candy and begging to be brushed. I no longer knew which discarded teeth belonged to which child, but I had kept them all just like A+ school papers and homemade birthday cards because they belonged to, and were once part of, the children I am lucky enough to call my own. My wife once told me that I keep my past in little boxes. She was right. But as I go through these boxes now and then, I am unashamed, and find happy memories and wonderful things. Sometimes I discover something about myself as well. Is it all that bad? No one may ever understand why these discarded teeth were collected and kept, and I'm not even certain myself. I think it's just another link between parent and child, between childhood and adulthood. It is something mystical, heartfelt, and sometimes comical. And what it is makes these lowly teeth and the memories they bring back invaluable, and well worth the fifty cents the Tooth Fairy left under a pillow for each dried little pearl. Like my mother, I have held onto these memories of my children, children now grown with children of their own. My granddaughter lost her first tooth a week ago, and when she did, I smiled, feeling the link between generations. I am comforted by the knowledge that my children are accumulating their own memories, their own collections to be found sometime in the future in little boxes. We keep the sentimental baggage of our lives, yet can it truly be called baggage? The memories are priceless. I can hold these treasures in my hand and the touch and the memories they bring back makes my heart expand and grow warm in remembering. And sometimes the memories grow so large in my heart I am filled with love and hope, and my eyes begin to water, and I find myself laughing because I'm crying. But it's not a sad cry, and is one of remembered joy. |
Copyright by
K. M. Fields
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