I came to notice by my eighth birthday that my dad had a tradition. He would wake up, shower, and then sit with that shoe box. That shoe box, the one I so desperately wanted to rummage through. He kept the box hidden until the day of my birthday, in which he would sit with, alone, in his room all morning, then come out with red, glassy eyes.
My dad didn't talk much about my mom, he often said I reminded him of her, but would never specify. I knew my mom had died when I was born but details weren't so easily handed over. Almost like it wasn't suppose to be talked about.
It was fourth grade, the week of Mother's Day, when everyone had wrote traits they hoped to inherit from their moms, that it really started to bug me. Not knowing what other part I was made from bugged me. Especially when all the teachers would be extra generous to me and baby me around this time, every year.
My tenth birthday was approaching and I knew Daddy would pull out that box and I was determined to see inside of it. I never had time to sneak around looking for it, my dad always watched me like a hawk. He was what I guess you could call an overprotective parent. He was always worried. I wasn't allowed to ride on the bus, nor was I allowed to spend the night away, unless it was with Grandma and Grandpa. My dad constantly checked on me while in school, since of course he was always just a hallway away. If I was sent to the nurse for a scrape or a scratch, my daddy was there, making sure I was okay. He never skipped a beat making sure I was safe, he was indeed my hero and I was the apple of his eye, his princess.
Finally, I was bold enough to ask my grandma, one day, "Why doesn't daddy ever talk about my mom?" I asked her as we played Rummy.
She looked at her cards, her glasses at the tip of her nose, and taking a deep breath, she discarded, "I am just not playing well tonight. Ha, ha!" she laughed. She looked up at me and noticed I was not laughing. "Oh, honey. Your mother was a beautiful woman. She was just as beautiful inside as she was outside. Your father," she hesitated, "I think you need to ask your father why he doesn't talk about her," and just like that the conversation went nowhere, "Your turn sweetie."
Ask my father. Ask my father what I had asked him a thousand times. Will you tell me about mommy?
Anytime I asked the question, I could see my father's eyes fill with sorrow and he would swiftly change the subject. I quit asking and decided to find out for myself. I started to plot and plan on how I could get into that box. Maybe I would find a diary or something. A love letter, maybe. Something that would make her more real than just a picture.
I knew what my mother had looked like, because there were so many pictures all around my grandparents house and a few around our house. She was beautiful and vibrant. In all the pictures, her hair was long and her eyes looked like blue ice. She always looked picture perfect even with her modest smile. But I didn't know what she was like as a person, except happy.
I would look at the pictures then in the mirror trying to find similarities. My eyes were blue like hers, but my hair was darker like Daddy's. Daddy liked me to wear it long and he even learned how to braid it for me. He told me all the time I acted like my mom, when I would say, "How?"
He would say, "Your smile, your eyes, even your laugh sounds just like Jayna's," his smile would fade and his eyes would leave mine.
I'd lean in and want him to keep going, "Tell me more! Did she read a lot like you? Did she love movies? Did she drink as much coffee as you do? " I'd ask, thinking of anything and everything I could think to ask beaming with excitement to find out more.
He'd stiffen up, and this is where the subject change would enter, "Have you done your homework yet?"
"I don't have any," I didn't know what to say after that. I was confused why it was so hard for him to talk about my mom, especially if she was such a lovely person.
"Are you hungry?" He'd asked rummaging through the cabinets of the kitchen.
"Sure," and like that the conversation was thrown away.
One night, my luck changed and opportunity arose and I was determined to find that box. My daddy fell asleep on the couch, grading papers. Papers were scattered about, his reading glasses still on, and a red ink pen still in his hand. Usually when this happened, he didn't wake til in the morning.
I stepped in front of the couch to see if he would move or wake from my movement. Nothing.
"Daddy?" I asked.
"Mmhmm," he mumbled tiredly, never moving.
I tiptoed away, down the hall, and to his bedroom. I opened the door and turned on the lamp beside his bed. Where to look first? Closet, maybe? I went to the closet and looked on the floor, behind the clothes that hung, and then to the shelf above the hanging clothes. Sure enough there in the corner, on the shelf, was the big pink and black shoe box with cursive writing on it. It stuck out like a sore thumb.
I reached my arms up only to realize how short my legs were. I needed something to step up on, the only thing was the step stool in the kitchen. I looked up at the box and I knew I was too close to give up. I thought about it for a minute, then back down the hall I went, towards the kitchen. I peeped in the living room and daddy was still sleeping peacefully. I hurried back down the hall and into his room.
My heart was racing mainly from excitement. I placed the stool in the closet and was able to grab the shoe box. My hands were so small, I couldn't keep my grip on the box and it fell on the closet floor spilling out all it's wonderful treasures.
My eyes widened when I saw the flower crown. Without any delay, I grabbed it out of the pile of stuff that laid about scattered on the floor. I'll pick it up in a minute, I thought to myself. I placed the crown on my head, it felt a little big, but I bet it was just as pretty on me as it was on my mom. I had to see. I had to find a mirror.
"Gracie! What are you doing?" My father had caught me red-handed.
My heart sank and I lowered my head. I knew he didn't want me messing with anything in his room, specifically his closet, and especially that shoe box.
"You know you're not suppose to be in my closet," He said to me, but he didn't sound angry.
"Yes sir," I said with my head still hung and the flower crown still on my head.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you," he said, lifting my chin.
I looked up at him, with sad eyes. I felt sorry for being sneaky.
"That sure is a pretty crown on you," he said to me with a slight smile, "Tell you what, I will let you have it, only if you promise me one thing," My eyes brightened, looking up at him.
"That box is very important to Daddy. It's all I have left of your mom, Jayna. I would be very, very sad if anything got messed up, misplaced, or torn up that is in that box. Do you understand, Grace?" He asked me.
"Yes, sir," I said softly, my eyes finding the floor.
He lifted my chin again, "Promise me you won't mess with that box anymore?"
"Never?" I asked hopelessly.
"Never say never. When you get a little older, I will share the contents of the box. Everything in it is is fragile, and it has to be handled with care," he said with his hand on my shoulder.
I looked back at the scattered treasures on the floor behind me, then back up at my daddy, "Okay, pinky promise," I said holding out my pinky. He linked his pinky with mine and smiled.
"Why don't you go look in the mirror to see how beautiful your new crown looks," he said, which made me happy.
I walked away, grinning. I didn't need to look in the mirror to know how beautiful it was, I trusted my daddy. If he said it was beautiful on me then I believed him. I was just so glad to finally have something of my mom's. Something that she had once wore on her head. Something more than just a picture.
Although it would be a few years, my pinky promise would eventually be broken. It wasn't planned, nor was it ever intentional. Yet little did I know, sometimes even when promises are broken, good will still come from it.
